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be so easy,’ Frank told him. ‘Carrie’s got a good reputation. Besides, the businesses around this area are not likely to change their cartage contractor with the danger of war looming.’
     
    ‘Well, that’s your worry,’ George said, eyeing his son sharply. ‘You run our business now, get yer finkin’ cap on. Who knows, we might buy ’er out yet.’
     
     
    On the wintery Monday morning in nearby Page Street at eight thirty a car pulled up outside the gates of the derelict yard and three men got out, each carrying papers and clipboards. The eldest of the trio seemed to be in charge and he walked up to the rusting padlock and gave it a tug.
     
    ‘It’s locked. Yer can’t get in there,’ a voice called out to him.
     
    The men looked over and saw the buxom figure of Maisie Dougall standing on the corner clutching an empty shopping bag.
     
    The leader nodded and proceeded to push on the gate as though testing its strength.
     
    ‘I told yer it’s shut. Nobody’s there,’ Maisie informed them.
     
    ‘Yes, I can see that,’ the man said testily.
     
    ‘It used ter be a transport yard, Galloway’s as a matter o’ fact. After that some ole rag sorters took it over. They’ve bin gorn fer some time too,’ Maisie went on.
     
    ‘Really,’ the man replied, turning his attention to the gates once more.
     
    ‘I dunno who’s got the key,’ Maisie said, trying to be helpful.
     
    ‘It’s not important.’
     
    ‘Well, yer gonna need the key ter get in, ain’t yer?’
     
    ‘I don’t need to get in, I just want to have a look,’ the man said with a condescending smirk in her direction.
     
    His two companions were grinning as the helpful lady from Page Street sauntered over.
     
    ‘ ’Ere. Yer not bin sent by Kate Karney, ’ave yer?’ Maisie asked.
     
    The two subordinates turned away to hide their amusement while the older man gave Maisie a scornful look. ‘Kate Karney?’ he almost shouted.
     
    ‘We ’eard that Kate Karney was gonna take this yard over fer a new music ’all,’ she explained, scratching the side of her head through a tattered hairnet. ‘Ter tell yer the trufe though, I fer one never believed it. Who the bleedin’ ’ell in their right minds would open a music ’all in this turnin’? They wouldn’t, would they?’ she asked.
     
    ‘Look, if you don’t mind, I’ve a lot to do. Thanks for your help,’ the man told her.
     
    ‘Well, yer can’t do much if yer can’t get in there,’ Maisie went on. ‘Why don’t yer send one o’ yer lads ter see if ole Galloway’s got the key? I should be careful though.’
     
    ‘Oh, and why’s that?’
     
    ‘I bet there’s rats in there big as our moggie.’
     
    The official turned to his two subordinates, who were by now wearing even bigger grins. ‘Let’s get started then,’ he said irritably, and in a lower voice he added, ‘I hope she’s not going to stand over us.’
     
    Maisie had other plans. She had glimpsed the wording on the paper pinned to the clipboard and felt that her old friend Florrie would be interested in her little discovery. She was planning to visit her anyway that morning.
     
    ‘Well, I’d better be off,’ she told the men.
     
    ‘Hurry up then,’ the leader growled under his breath.
     
    As soon as Maisie left, the men proceeded to take measurements, pavement to wall and across the gates; then they stood back and studied the site, scribbling on the clipboards and conferring with each other, unaware that they were being observed from behind more than one pair of lace curtains.
     
     
    It was bright but still cold, and the early morning frost had left the cobbled transport yard wet and slippery. The last of the horse-carts had left and Joe was busying himself in the end shed repairing the splintered side panel of the spare wagon. Across the yard Carrie was sitting in the office going over the work schedules with Jamie Robins, her clerk and book-keeper.
     
    Jamie was a quiet, slim