. . . what a life it had been, with maybe more still to come.    He remembered again his grandfathers' words of wisdom, given so many years ago.

"Don't get to be my age boy, and wish you'd done it.    Do it, and to hell with the regrets !"

Well, maybe he hadn't done everything yet, but he'd had a damn good try.    Perhaps one thing, at least, remained to be done, if only to keep the old Victorian gentleman happy . . . the one whom he occasionally sensed "taking a shufti" over his shoulder.    Before he got much older and the memories faded into oblivion, he really must do what his Dad had long told him he should   . . . take the time to sit down and write the story of a Brat . . . one who had survived Halton and beyond . . . !

. . .  the old man awoke with a start.    His wife had just come back aboard from her shopping trip, and night had fallen.    The view across the river was reduced to a mere set of sparkles from the navigation beacons on the old lock wings, the glow from a couple of distant floodlights, and the faint silhouette of the mountain ridgetop against a darkening sky.    The two dogs were standing patiently by the outer door to the salon, their one-track minds fixed only on a visit to their favourite tree ashore.

He smiled  . . .  the contented look on his face left his wife wondering why !