"Lucky" Little Strikes Out

By Toni Richards

Born into an ordinary working class family, William James Little would have expected to live an ordinary life. A childhood accident left him unable to join in the usual outdoor sporting activities, but a couple of chance encounters, in his mid-teens, introduced him to the pleasures of indoor activities, with many willing companions, earning him the added title of “Lucky”. In a five year period from the age of eighteen he lost, through accident or fatal illness, all the members of his family and, most tragic of all, the only girl he ever loved. Although he gained an accountancy qualification he was content to meander through the rest of his life. A casual invitation to a dinner changed that. At the age of thirty eight he was forced into an unwanted marriage, to a girl half his age, part of a family whose business associates were involved with criminal activities. Within two years a number of deaths had occurred and his life, or freedom, was in danger from those associates and as the main suspect of the police. He needed to strike out and away from both organisations but, due to his consideration for the welfare of his wife's young housemaid, who he treated as a daughter, he delayed his departure. With help from unexpected quarters, he managed to escape half way round the world. Following an unexpected meeting he faced his ultimate destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AUK Authors
• Release date: May 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781783330461

Book preview

damages.

Chapter One

Wednesday, 15th June, 1994

I double checked that the gate, leading from the back garden of the property, was securely fastened, then headed westward along the track on the northern edge of Rombalds Moor. There was no point living in a property surrounded by a high stone wall, topped with barbed wire, if you were to leave the gates wide open. As usual, with a walk of this kind, I let my legs take me where they wanted to wander, then let my thoughts wander along with them.

It was early evening and the longest day was only a week away. Most of Britain had been blessed with almost a fortnight of hot, sunny weather. The cynics had claimed it would not last. Their claim to this statement was that it would soon be Wimbledon fortnight, and it always rained before, during and after. They were being proved right. A depression had appeared in the Atlantic. Rain was already falling in the south west and Wales. While the good weather prevailed, I had used every opportunity to take advantage of the conditions. Born and bred in an industrial area of Leeds, above the Aire valley in Yorkshire, I had spent much of my youth being taken round the Yorkshire Dales by my friend William's 'Uncle' Seth, and grown to appreciate the freedom of the open countryside.

William and I were good friends for two reasons. Our shared Christian name, and having the same initials. He was William John Longman and I was William James Little. Seth was not his real uncle, just an old bachelor who had known the family for many years. He had offered to give William a real treat for his eighth birthday, which was on the afternoon of Thursday of the first week of the school summer holidays. With four other classmates, Dave Powell, Kenny Child, Steve Gray and Terry Burton we piled into Seth's car. It was one of those cars which had a bench seat at the front. The two of us, who he re-Christened Billy and Willie for the purposes of identification, were in the front; the others in the back. In those days nobody worried about safety belts.

The furthest any of us had travelled was the few miles into either Leeds or Bradford. None of our families could afford holidays, so this was going to be a 'Big Adventure'. Before setting out, Seth gave a sweet to each of us. The sweets were gobstoppers - those mouth filling, round, boiled sweets that changed colour as they were sucked. Seth told us that he needed absolute silence while he drove, as he needed to concentrate and not be distracted by noisy chatter. We all sat and sucked and stared out of the windows. Very soon we were in unfamiliar territory as we headed north along the Leeds ring road, then west along the A65 towards our final destination of Ilkley, eventually pulling into a parking space below the Cow and Calf rocks.

More modern authoritarians would be horrified at the thought of one person, and an elderly one at that, allowing six high-spirited seven and eight year olds the freedom to race through bracken taller than they were, and to climb, or scramble, over rocks. Those people have forgotten they were young once. Seth hadn't. We were in seventh heaven, or its earthly equivalent. The only restriction he placed on us was to stay close together. Even so, games such as Hide and Seek or plain old-fashioned Cowboys and Indians were enjoyed by all. A few scrapes were suffered but no major calamities. By four o'clock we were exhausted and climbed tiredly into the car. We were not aware that the day out was not yet finished.

Seth had taken the opportunity to have a walk on the moor, always keeping a close eye on us. After all, he was taking on a lot of responsibility. On the return journey he told us the names of the places we were passing through and as he passed through the traffic lights at Menston he told us we would be making a stop at White Cross. He pulled into a car park and someone in the back said in a loud voice, We're at Harry Ramsden's.

Who's that, someone else replied.

Only the most famous fish and chip shop in the world, was the answer. Are we going in here? he added.

We certainly are, replied Seth. Everybody out, but go and wash your hands and faces first. I don't think they will mind a dozen dirty knees.

It took us some time before we could be given a table for seven but, eventually, we sat down; all of us looking around in awe. It was a rare occasion that any of us had been to an eating place. They were usually the sort of places called 'greasy spoons'. What we were looking at was 'posh'. Someone had to say something - I think it was Steve.

This is a real tablecloth, he said, looking down. We only use ours at Christmas, or if we have visitors. Who are all these women walking around wearing the same clothes?

They are waitresses who will come and ask us what we want to eat, answered Seth.

Before we had time to add any further comment, one of the waitresses came to our table.

Hello, luv, she said to Seth. Are you ready to order?

Aye, lass, he replied. Cod and chips all round - and not the children's portions either. These lads have worked up a man's appetite. Pot of tea with mine, but fizzy drinks for the lads. Bring a mixture - they can sort it out for themselves.

When she had gone Terry asked Do you know her? She called you 'luv'. My mam only calls people 'luv' if she's known them a long time.

Seth laughed. "Nay, lad. All the waitresses here call the customers 'luv'. I reckon it saves having to find out their names. And it's a lot more friendly than calling customers 'Sir' or 'Madam'.

The food and drinks came quickly and we all set to demolishing this splendid meal. Seth mustn't have been too hungry because he only ate his fish, but we helped him clear his plate of chips. Then it was time to go home.

Seth hadn't finished with us yet. We had to sing all the way home.

"What better way to start our sing-song than 'Ilkla Moor Baht 'At', he said.

We don't know the words, we said, together.

I do, replied Seth, you'll soon pick up the chorus.

We did. We had time for a dozen verses of 'One Man Went to Mow' before we arrived home.

Thanks Uncle Seth, said William, acting as spokesperson, that's the best birthday I've ever had.

We all agreed with him and Seth said it had been a pleasure taking us and watching us enjoy ourselves.

Every Thursday during the school holidays he took William and myself to another part of the Yorkshire Dales. The main consideration was that there should be rocks, or similar opportunities for climbing. We visited Malham Cove, climbing up the path to the top; Brimham Rocks, where we marvelled at the fantastic shapes created by weather conditions; and three of Yorkshire's many abbeys - Kirkstall, Bolton and Fountains.

At the end of the school holidays he said he would take us to many more places in the future, but only if we wanted him to. We both agreed that this was a great idea and, while we remained at primary school, that was how we spent much of our Easter and summer holidays, and many weekends as well.

In our last term at primary school, during a casual game of football, I suffered serious damage to my knee. It was two weeks before I was due to sit an entrance examination, to attend the local grammar school. I was expected to pass. I was still in hospital on that date and missed out.

Once I was reasonably mobile Seth asked me if I wanted to resume our walks. He said he would select walks that would be easy on my knee, and it would help to get me fit again. I agreed to this, but it seemed to me that William was not happy that I had apparently adopted his 'Uncle Seth'.

When we moved on to secondary school, William found other interests, in which I could not, or was not inclined, at first, to be interested. Seth continued to take me round the Yorkshire Dales, as often as I was able to go.

* * *

If anyone had told me, in those halcyon childhood days, that I would live in Ilkley, in a large house on the edge of the Moor, I would have told him not to be so daft. To a child born of working class parents, it was a crazy idea. To many people it would be incredible that I had been living in those conditions for the past eighteen months, but if they knew the circumstances, they would not be envious, and may even be sympathetic. I did not own it, and was only there as a consequence of a marriage I had neither sought nor enjoyed.

There were too many conditions and restrictions attached to the marriage. I am not referring to the vows which, in my wife's view, were mere inconveniences to her continuing lifestyle. To many people it might have been advantageous to be employed, at an exorbitant salary, by my father-in-law, but it was nothing more than a means to support the financial extravagances of his daughter.

Little wonder that I sought to get away from both the house and my working conditions as often as possible. I still could not escape fully. The household, for the first five months, comprised my wife in the main part of the house (I was confined to the original servants' quarters); a young girl, of apparent Asian descent, to act as maid, and two muscular 'bodyguards' also housed in the servants' quarters; and another well-built male who lived in the main part of the house. The 'bodyguards' were for my 'benefit' and followed me everywhere (except a few obvious places such as the toilets) to make sure I was complying with the conditions of the marriage. I needed a name for them and, after trying out various names of entertainment, even cartoon, double acts, I decided to ignore those and came over all biblical and named them Gog and Magog. It was an appropriate name, as both of them were much taller than me, and almost as broad across the shoulders.

I established a fixed routine to ensure I was not inconvenienced too much, and soon found that I could create some problems for them, without appearing to be doing it deliberately. I had little flexibility during the working week, but the weekends were available for relaxation and a degree of freedom. I walked the moors and dales every weekend and holiday I could, weather permitting, and found that they could not keep up. This may seem surprising, given their build. Every weekday morning I went to a leisure centre for a work out in the gym, followed by a swim. They followed me and, although they did not swim, they worked out in the gym, but only with weights for their upper body muscles. In the early days, being winter, I was restricted, but every Sunday I would walk to one or other of the many public houses, or similar providers of food and drink, for lunch. This seemed to please them as the distances were not far.

As the weather improved I looked to head further afield and, on the first available Sunday, I decided on an easy six mile walk which included, just beyond the halfway mark, a public house. The second half of the walk started along the riverbank but soon started to rise and cross a large number of walls, each of which had to be crossed by means of ladder stiles. I was quite fit from constant exercise and swimming, but by the time I returned to my starting point I was feeling fairly tired. They were quite a distance behind and looking exhausted. This was not surprising. They were city dwellers, totally unused to the countryside. In addition, they were unsuitably dressed for a walk in the country, which needed warm clothing and strong footwear as a minimum requirement. Consequently, over the next month I increased my fitness so that I could go on more strenuous walks.

I would have thought that they would have had some sense to obtain and gain more experience, but they seemed to believe that all that was needed was to keep following me. Over the weeks I had varied the walks, taking in some reasonably strenuous hill climbs, mostly at the start of the walk, and noting their condition during the walks. I started to use that annoying habit of some walkers, which was to stop to allow stragglers to catch up, then immediately set off on the next part of the walk. While I got plenty of rests, they did not. I also avoided stopping at public houses and started taking picnic lunches, which I usually ate very near the end of the walk. I also carried a bottle of water and made sure they did not see me using it. They had never thought to ask advice from me, or from the people who employed them. The first was understandable, as there was never any communication between us, and I assumed that they did not make complaints to their employer because it might show they were not up to the task. By the end of April I was ready to cause them extreme discomfort. It was not because I disliked them; I didn't, they were just an encumbrance who were an added discomfort to my life.

* * *

My choice of walk was one of the three peaks in the northwest of the Yorkshire Dales National Park. The advantages of this were the distance to travel to the starting point and the length of the walk - approximately ten miles. Our earlier walks were around six or seven miles, sometimes with a pub lunch at about the two-thirds mark. My walks had not previously covered high ground - or steep ascents - but I was certain that I would achieve my aim, which was to get so far ahead of them that I could return to the starting point unescorted. The first Monday of May is a Bank Holiday and my wife and in-laws would be away for the whole weekend. The Saturday - first of May 1993 - was my chosen date.

Previous walks had been started by leaving home between 9.30 and ten, but this day I intended to leave at nine or, if possible, earlier. I made as many preparations on the Friday evening, rose early on the Saturday morning and was ready by 8.30. They were not early risers, but I had to wait until they were having their breakfast, before making my unexpected entrance, to announce that I was on my way. It took me five minutes to get from the kitchen, where we had breakfast, to the gateway at the end of the drive. This was not because I was slow, but in order to ensure they would not lose me too early. I had to get them on the walk.

Our starting point was the Yorkshire Dales National Park car park at Clapham and I was ahead of them by a couple of minutes. On this occasion I had driven in my walking boots, so I did not have to change before the walk, as was my usual procedure. They would not have expected this and took a little time in getting themselves ready. My reason for this was to be sure that everything they did was hurried. By the time they were ready and could see which way I was headed, I had a five minute start on them.

The first part of the walk was on walled country lanes, mostly uphill but not too steep, before moving on to moorland tracks. The target, Ingleborough, was soon in sight and I made steady progress to the first objective, the entrance to Gaping Gill, probably the most famous entrance to the dales underground cave system. From there it would be a steady climb to Little Ingleborough, a small peak about a half mile from the top of Ingleborough and about two hundred feet lower. I worked out that they were a quarter hour behind me and I could afford a five minute break before tackling the ascent. The lay of the land meant that we could not see each other from that point but, once I started to walk up the track, I would be in view the whole way, including the traverse from Little Ingleborough. As I set off on the most arduous part of the walk I was joined by a group of walkers - as this was a popular target, there were many people out walking - but they were much fitter than me, and soon left me behind. I was thankful for the rest I had taken but, even so, I was feeling distressed before I had reached the halfway point. Part of this was because my knee was beginning to ache. I had not given much thought to this problem on earlier walks, because I had not put such a strain on it before. I was very concerned that my plan would not work, until I realised that they were not aware of any plan, and would just think it was another walk I wanted to do. I kept looking back and noticed that they were falling further behind, which spurred me on to reach the top. Eventually, I got there and took a long rest. After that ascent the traverse to Ingleborough itself looked nothing more than a gentle stroll. I made sure that they were aware of the direction I would be walking before setting a nice, slow, steady pace. I was aware that I still had a lot of ground to cover, before I was back at the car. I finally achieved my goal of the top of Ingleborough. I had only been there twice before and, although I knew what to expect, the view still took me almost by surprise. The top of Ingleborough, although termed a peak, is a plateau the size of many football fields. What comes as an additional surprise, for the first time visitor, is the number of people on the plateau, as there never seems to be a large number walking up to the top. The reason is that there are at least four different ways to reach the top and it was this that made me decide on Ingleborough. At the other end from my entry point there is a sort of shelter cum picnic spot, which some people told me had been created from a Roman fort. Whether, or not, this is true is, perhaps, doubtful, but there was certainly an Iron Age fort on Ingleborough. It was to this that I headed, where I was able to enjoy a leisurely lunch.

I kept watch for them but it was some time before they walked on to the plateau, which gave me time to make final plans of evasion. I was dressed in a blue jacket and white towelling hat and this combination was almost unique. I had seen one other person with this same colour combination, who was part of a group hidden from my followers. I managed to find a rock to stand on, waved my hat to attract their attention and, when I had achieved that, waved it to indicate the direction that I intended to follow. It would take them about ten minutes to reach a point level with where I was waving, and I moved behind the shelter. The group containing my look-alike were just setting off towards the southwest corner, where there was a track leading down to Ingleton. My decoy was last to leave and was lagging a little behind. I hoped that my followers would assume it was me.

I had brought a change of outer clothing and quickly made the switch from blue jacket and white hat to red jacket and yellow hat, a colour scheme that would attract attention but not recognition. Moving back into the open area I saw my followers were taking the course I intended. I moved to the other side from them and, keeping a wary eye on their progress, made my way back to my original entry point. If they noticed me they did not show it.

I could now complete the intended walk by retracing my route to Little Ingleborough and then continue in the same direction, on a gentle downhill slope, until I reached the walking track between Ingleton and Clapham. I calculated that the other two would take at least twenty minutes, probably more, to catch up with the other group, by which time it would be too late to catch up with me. This seemed to be the case as there was still no sign of them as I pulled out of the car park.

* * *

For the first time in almost five months I was a free spirit. It was time to catch up on my former life. My first stop was to my former home - my parent's small terrace house, which I had inherited, and in which I had lived until my marriage. The occupants were Kenny Child's 21year old son, Trevor, and Terry Burton's 17 year old daughter, Frances. Terry owned a thriving engineering business and employed Trevor as an apprentice and, later, Frances as a bookkeeper. Trevor and Frances became friendly and, ultimately, very friendly. They needed somewhere to live following their hastily arranged marriage. With my pending marriage, also hastily arranged, looming, I agreed to rent the house, fully furnished, at a reasonable rent. The rent was to be paid into a building society account, and they had the passbook. All I needed was to see that the passbook was up to date.

As I drove along the street I realised that, first, there was no parking space available and, second, that there was a Volvo parked close to the house. That must mean Terry and, probably, his wife Maureen were visiting. I had given no advance warning and I had wondered whether anyone was at home. I managed to find a parking space on some spare ground three streets away and walked back to the house. My knock on the door was answered by Terry. He looked at me rather dubiously, but that was due to the sun being behind me and my face would be in shadow. Also, I was still in my walking clothes. Suddenly recognition dawned.

Good God, it's Little Willie, he almost screamed. Turning from me and opening the inner door I heard him say we have a very welcome visitor to our homecoming. He grabbed me by the arm and hauled me into the main room. Five faces stared at me. Maureen was the first to react.

How lovely to see you William, she said. Come and meet my grandson. Isn't he just wonderful.

If there is a choice between viewing a baby and having toothache I would always choose toothache. To me babies, when they are not sleeping or feeding, are either noisy or making an appalling smell. I looked at the bundle being held by Frances and noticed the look on her face - a mixture of happiness and tiredness. The little face staring out of the mass of material was a cross between a human and a monkey. I did not know what to say.

I think I mumbled something about a bundle of joy and I expected that she was glad the whole ordeal was over. Of course, once started I could not stop talking and added something inane about being thankful I did not have to go through such a traumatic ordeal. I staggered under the weight of a hand hitting my shoulder - hard.

Typical Willie, said Kenny. You always were a bit of a prat. The homecoming of a new born babe is a moment for the ladies to savour. Not to be reminded how it all came about.

I had noticed a bit of tension when I had stopped speaking, but Kenny's words lightened the mood. I knew I had to get out as soon as possible and explained why I was there. Trevor, after consulting with Frances, found the passbook and I was able to confirm that all payments had been made. I then tried to take my leave but had to make some sensible comment. The only thought I had was a typical accountant 's view of the world - finance. I asked Trevor about his job and how they were coping now that Frances would, I expected, be home looking after the baby. Terry was quick to respond that Trevor was through his apprenticeship and was earning a full wage. He added, if he was still on apprentice wages were you going to offer a reduction in rent?

I think the look on my face showed that was the last thing I would do, but managed to respond no, but I am not going to increase it either.

Sorry, said Terry, I should not have said that.

No problem, I replied. I am just pleased everything is going so well for you all. With that I turned towards the door.

Just a moment, said Maureen. We have been so taken by our little one, we have forgotten about you and your wife. When is your baby due?

I had hoped that question would not arise, and I just looked over my shoulder.

It isn't, I said, she had a miscarriage in February. Before anyone could answer, I added, it was all for the best, as it happens.

I left that little gathering looking sad and, I guessed, a little embarrassed.

The financial aspect made the visit worthwhile but the other parts of the conversation left a poor taste. I was to find later that we were all so embarrassed by what had taken place we were keen to make amends. It was to be another fifteen months before we could do that.

* * *

My next visit was to two women who had done well for themselves. They had been at the same secondary school as me, but two years behind. Linda Grant and Joan Turner had shown all the natural curiosity of young girls and I had been happy to oblige. I was discreet and they were thankful for that. They were not the most successful of students, had left after taking their O Level exams and both gone to work in two of the major stores in Leeds. They had worked their way through the departments, rising from junior salesgirls to positions of department heads. Unkind people had suggested that they had slept their way into those positions, but Linda's response was sharp. We would not have got the jobs if we had not been capable and, anyway, we were never allowed to sleep on the job. Neither had wanted to get married and have children, and managed to avoid both while still enjoying the benefits of male company - especially those who would enhance their careers.

They lived together in a semi-detached house in Guiseley and, without giving any advanced warning, I parked on the road outside the property and walked down the drive to the front door. Before I had chance to ring the bell the door was opened by Linda wearing an open housecoat and the scantiest of underwear. One or other of them had obviously seen me from a window when I pulled up and got out of the car.

We are not buying anything and we certainly do not want any undesirables on our property. What will the neighbours think. Be off with you.

Not a greeting you would expect from an old schoolmate - and mate was an appropriate word. I was lost for words and was saved by a voice from somewhere in the house.

Who is it?

It's that randy young kid we used to knock around with at school. Mind you, he looks as though he is past his 'use-by' date. I don't think he will be any use to us.

While she was speaking Joan had appeared at the end of the hall, saw me, and, racing past Linda, flung herself at me, giving me the benefit of a long lingering kiss. At the conclusion she grabbed my hand and pulled me into the house. When I had recovered enough to look at her I could see that she was wearing even less than Linda, who followed us both into the lounge.

Let me have a look at you. You are looking a bit peeky. Marriage doesn't seem to be doing you any good, at all, said Joan, giving me a full appraising look. I was too busy staring at her chest to make any appropriate response. Her housecoat was transparent and she was not wearing a bra. With her ample proportions this was not appropriate. At least Linda, who I occasionally glanced at, was better upholstered.

As usual he only has eyes for one thing, said Linda in a disparaging voice.

You're wrong, I retorted. I have eyes for two things or, in this instance, four.

Ooh, exclaimed Linda, still as cheeky as ever. Why don't you remove some of that clothing - or all of it - it's not as if we haven't seen what you're made of. Then you can slip into something comfortable. Which of us do you prefer?

That's an offer I would not normally refuse, but you forget I am now a married man, and I never, ever wanted to get into an adulterous situation.

Very commendable, but who will know? Joan wanted to get into the conversation.

I will, for a start. My marriage is awkward enough, without adding to the problems.

Never worried us getting involved with married men. Sometimes I think the wives prefer it. Takes the pressure off them having to perform nightly.

This conversation is getting out of hand, I said. All I wanted was to call on you to see how you were getting on. I never expected to be propositioned so blatently.

What a load of co-o-odswallop, came Joan's reply. You used to visit for the sole purpose of checking whether you could still handle both of us. I don't see that your being married has changed anything. From what you said, about your first meeting with your wife, you were conned into giving her a kid. So, do you owe her anything of a noble nature, by denying yourself some brief pleasure.

Don't tempt me any further. You do not know half the story and the problems any of us could face if it became known. I was getting desperate, wished I hadn't called, and wanted to get out as soon as possible.

As it happens we are in the middle of getting ready to go out on a double dinner date - plus extras - so why don't you come and talk to us while we continue getting ready. It's not as if you are going to see anything you haven't seen before, is it?

All right, I said, I just wanted someone to talk to, on the basis that a problem shared could be a problem halved; or in this case, thirded, if that is an appropriate word.

We all headed upstairs. On the basis of our conversation it was a mistake but, as I left over an hour later, it was an unforgettable experience. I just hoped my wife, in-laws, or any of their associates never learned about it. The end of my life would be the result, and it would be a long and very painful ending.

* * *

The final visit was to a former classmate who was now a widow. Helen Thompson (nee Cartwright) was the third member of the academic triumvirate. Janet Wilson, myself, and Helen, in that order, with Helen a fair way back in third. Helen became the most successful of the three of us, earning a scholarship to Oxford with the intention of qualifying as a lawyer. In her first year she met, and eventually married, a member of the tutorial staff whose wife had died and left him with two early teen children. Most people unkindly said he just wanted a cheap housekeeper, but there was genuine affection, maybe love, between them, and she became a good 'mother' to his children. This was improved after fifteen months when she became a mother herself; a daughter she named Jennifer. It all ended nine years later when her husband died of a heart attack.

She had never really fit into the Oxford academic life of her husband and, within a year of his death, she returned to her native Yorkshire, choosing to settle in a modest end terrace house built between the two world wars. I was told all this, after an unexpected meeting, when I was involved in a trust audit at the law firm where she was employed, while attempting to complete her law degree. As we worked in the same city we agreed, initially, to meet weekly for lunch, but this changed to fortnightly, then monthly and, finally, quarterly. Our first meetings had been all about catching up on each other's lives since leaving school, but had then centred on the progress of her studies. It had been a mutual, tacit, agreement that meetings should be at greater intervals. I had last seen her on Wednesday, 21st October, 1992. I phoned her at the end of the following month to tell her that I was to be married within the next fortnight and, with the marriage, there was a change of jobs. I think it was a relief to us both, that an excuse could be found, to terminate our lunchtime meetings, without embarrassment to either of us.

I did not know Otley well and it took some time to find the street in which she lived. I parked close by and made my way to her front door. I had hardly taken my finger off the doorbell when the door opened and, before I could say hello, Helen she said Oh! It's you!. Not the best of greetings, especially as their was no delight in either her expression or voice.

Almost immediately there was a change. Her face was lit up by a huge smile and, without any comment, she pushed past me and, with a cry of Jennifer! she rushed into the arms of her daughter. I cannot ever remember receiving such a rapturous welcome as that and certainly felt I was intruding. There was a young man behind them and he looked as embarrassed as I felt. As he did not move away I assumed he was somehow attached to Jennifer. Finally the hug ended and the usual comments flowed. Good to be home; you're looking well; how's the job/studying; all those type of remarks. Finally Jennifer said, looking behind her at the same time, mum, this is Pad - he's at the same uni - but in his final year. He's studying the same subjects as me and has been a big help this term. Helen's welcome to him was warm enough, but I wondered whether he was as much an intruder as I was.

They turned to return to the house and I was struck by the similarities between the two women. No doubt they were mother and daughter but, in a dim light, could have passed as sisters. In the prescence of her daughter, Helen seemed to have shed ten years. As they approached me I knew I had to say something.

Look, Helen, I'm sorry to intrude. Actually, I just called to wish you luck in your final exams and, as I was free this evening, and if you were as well, I was going to offer to take you out for a meal. I know I'm not dressed for anywhere with a dress code, but we could have gone to a pub, or similar place. Anyway, this is not a good time so I'll head off home. Nice meeting you Jennifer and I hope your university studies go well.

Helen looked at me and then started laughing.

What's the joke? I asked.

Sorry, William. I can't help it. That was a long speech for you, and you looked a bit pathetic as you tried to be tactful with what you were saying. As I started to walk past them she added, don't go. I know you meant what you said, and the meal was a lovely idea. As I didn't know when Jennifer would be arriving, I had not prepared anything and had decided to take them out. Why don't you join us. Three's a crowd and you will convert it to a foursome. She looked at me and I stared back at her. I think there was a look of indecision on my face. "Say yes, please" she added. I could not think of a good enough excuse to refuse the offer and the begging nature of that 'please' decided me in accepting.

Helen led the way into the house so that we could all prepare ourselves for the evening. I was thankful I had been able to have a shower before leaving Linda and Joan, but I was still wearing my walking clothes. I hoped this would be acceptable, as they all had clothes into which they could change. They headed upstairs to unpack, wash and change. Helen was the first to return.

I don't think they will be too long, she said. I was pleased that Pad did not seem put out by being in a seperate room to Jennifer.

Like mother, like daughter, I replied. Good for her.

You were surprisingly chivalrous to myself and Janet. And other similar thinking girls.

Always had respect for those who could think for themselves and not follow blindly what others were doing.

At this point Jennifer came into the room. What do I call you, she said to me. You must be mum's age.

William will do, I replied.

You don't want to be called Little Willie, then? said Helen.

Certainly not' I replied indignantly.

Why do you say Little Willie, mum? It sounds rude.

It's all in the mind, I interrupted, before it got out of hand. I explained 'Uncle Seth's' means of identification between two Williams. The other boys thought it was good, I added, and they started using it at school. When we moved on to the comprehensive it continued and our form teacher added to it by putting my surname first. That is how the name came about. When the teacher said it out loud, all the girls started giggling.

That's not the only reference, said Helen. Was she trying to embarrass me.

That reference was only because I did not match up to those boys with, shall we say, more generous attributes.

It served its purpose often enough when we were at school. He was often the subject of discussions in the girl's cloakroom. The comments were usually complimentary.

I needed to change the subject. I turned to Jennifer. I heard you call your boyfriend Pad. Is that his real name? Or is it short for Paddy? He didn't sound Irish.

He is not really my boyfriend. Just someone who has helped me with my studies. He was coming up north this weekend and offered me a lift, if I would share the cost of petrol. He is referred to as Pad because those are his initials. His full name is Patrick Andrew Davidson.

How saintly and Celtic, I said. Rather tactlessly, I thought, immediately after saying it.

Before the conversation became more embarrassing for me Pad came into the room. I noticed how he was dressed. I also took in Jennifer's appearance. I had forgotten how impoverished university students were, and they certainly looked the part. Helen 'dressed down' for the occasion and we headed for a recently opened 'barn' type family restaurant and bar which was situated on the main road between Otley and Ilkley. As it was on my way home, I travelled alone in my car, while they travelled together in Pad's car.

My contribution to the organisation of the evening was limited to the division of the final bill. As I had, effectively, invited Helen, and she had invited Jennifer and Pad, I considered that we should share the cost equally. I put forward a rather complicated accountant's opinion, which Helen cut short by agreeing to the equal division. That settled, she organised the seating arrangement. We sat at a square table, just large enough to provide space for main plate, side plate and one drink, and I expected to have Helen on one of the sides adjoining mine. Instead, I sat opposite her with Jennifer on my right and Pad on my left.

A waitress came quickly to our table, announced that she was Cathy (a bit superfluous as she had a large name tag that could be read from ten paces) and that she would be looking after us. She added that we could ask for anything we required. I wondered how many ribald responses she had received following that announcement. After handing out menus she asked what we would like to drink. None of us had had any opportunity to check what was available but, as Helen asked for a bottle of Pinot Grigio, I asked for a pint of bitter. I immediately felt like a Philistine ordering beer, but I prefer wine with quality food and this looked the type of place which served ordinary, yet wholesome, food. I do not want to appear to be a cullinary snob, but I do like to have food and drink complementing each other. By the time the drinks arrived we were ready to order. I am not one of those people who can remember what other diners ordered but I remember my own order - home-made steak and kidney pie. It was memorable for one reason - it took such a long time to appear before me, that I remarked that they must have sent