As my train rumbled through Kent on an overcast July morning I sat in an empty carriage, staring out at the passing countryside and gloomily taking stock of my diminishing number of relatives.  Certainly none of them bore my own surname of Downing, because, like me, my late father had been an only child, as had his father before him.  As for the few Slagg relations on my mother's side - not a name that gave me any sense of pride - the only three I'd ever known had died some few weeks earlier in tragic circumstances.  

      I recalled seeing a brief report in the Telegraph one morning and wondering if they were in any way related, but soon dismissed the thought until a mysterious letter arrived from a Mr. B. Smith of Ashford, confirming that the deceased trio had indeed been my uncles.

      I don't recall ever meeting them.  I was aware of their existence only because, like any normal child, I used to plague my mother with tiresome questions, and she once confessed in a rash moment of unburdening that she did have three younger brothers.  She spoke as if there was something slightly odd about them - only one ever married, and he got divorced after six months!  They were never a topic of conversation at home, and I assumed that - like lavatory paper and ladies' underwear - these uncles were subjects not to be raised in the presence of my late mother's church-going friends.  Yet, according to the letter I now held in my hand, it seemed I had in some way been favoured as their only surviving heir.

      I'd managed to take the morning off from work, and was travelling down to Ashford where I had an appointment with a firm of solicitors in North Street.  In a vain attempt to predict the kind of news they might have in store for me, I reread the letter.

      "Dear Mr. Downing," it began.  "As you will have gathered from our telephone conversation, we have been instructed to contact you regarding the estates of your three late uncles, John Walter Slagg, deceased, Arthur Ernest Slagg, deceased, and Percy Middleton Slagg, deceased.  There are several urgent matters we need to discuss with you in person, in connection with their last wills and testaments... " etc. etc.

      The day the letter came I had delved back through piles of old newspapers and eventually found the paragraph I'd seen earlier, describing how a light aircraft had crashed into a remote Pennsylvanian hillside, killing its three English occupants.  It went on to reveal that the late Slagg brothers had been joint owners of a small manufacturing company in the state of New Jersey, a factory whose employees (according to Mr. Smith) were now running around like headless chickens.

      Was I to be given the task of rounding them up?  Had I been nominated to care for my uncles' cats?  Had one of the Slagg brothers seen fit to leave me his old golf clubs, or was there a legacy of inconceivable magnitude?  What dark family secrets would the cautious Mr. Smith be good enough to unveil when I arrived?

      The train entered Ashford's prestigious International Station, drawing to a halt with a long and painful squeak.  It was already five to eleven, and my appointment was for eleven o'clock.  At the barrier I flashed my ticket under the nose of a ticket-collector as if he had eyes like a bar-code reader, and ran towards the town centre.

      Messrs. Smith and Smith occupied premises that belied any suggestion of a successful practice - indeed the word "seedy" sprang to mind and I abandoned any hope of having been left a fortune.  At best, this expedition would be a welcome day out, a diversion from my everyday nine-to-five job in the city with a prosperous firm of Chartered Accountants.

      Seated behind a reception desk in the lobby was a young and well-upholstered lady - presentable, but hardly pretty - in fact, until she moved I had the impression she was made of wax and had been left overnight near a hot stove.

      "Can I help you?" she enquired sweetly, her head tilting slightly to one side as if addressing a small child.  I asked to see Mr. Smith.

      "Brian or Bill?" she needed to know.

      "Whichever you feel has the greater propensity for conviviality," I responded with my usual flippancy, and showed her the letter which she quickly scanned, making grunts of disapproval.

      "This is Brian's handiwork," she declared.  "He must have typed it on Saturday, evidently in some haste.  Could I have your name please?"

      I tapped my finger on the letter.  "Downing," I said with a smile.

      She peered at it again, and turned to a private intercom.  "Brian?  I have a Mr. Richard Downing in reception!"

      The machine squawked some acknowledgement, and I was treated to a beam of glowing admiration.  Had she been trained to smile at every client as if he were the turning point in her life, or did she know more about my prospects than discretion allowed her to reveal?

      "He'll be down in a moment," she purred.  "Would you care for some coffee?"

      She continued to smile so coyly I wondered, then and there, whether she really had taken a fancy to me.  I was still hoping to attract my ideal partner one day, and whilst this particular lady possessed few of the physical qualities I looked for in a more promising candidate, the gleam in her eyes was at least memorable.   My reverie was curtailed by the  appearance of a young man who stood in the doorway, giggling nervously.

      "Mr. Downing?  Ha, ha!  Good morning, I'm Brian Smith!  If you'd care to follow me?  It's a bit of a warren here, I'm afraid - not the most attractive building, but we plan to improve when funds permit.  Good trip down?"

      He led me up an insecure staircase and into a small office, bare except for his desk, a grey filing cabinet and a rudimentary settee.  The black plastic upholstery made a vulgar protest as I lowered myself onto it.

      "As you can imagine," I began, "I'm agog with curiosity.  What's this important news you have for me?"

      "Aha!  Yes.  What indeed!" he grinned knowingly, and wired a pair of metal-framed glasses to his ears.  "It concerns the estates of your three late uncles.  They each prepared separate wills, Mr. Downing, but in essence all three documents amount to the same thing.  The brothers obviously expected to die one by one, and accordingly left everything to one another.  But," he added, peering over the lenses for dramatic effect, "they wisely included a provision that if none of them were to survive the other two - then you, Richard Robert Downing, only son of the late Emily Alice Downing née Slagg, should become their sole beneficiary!"

       I think I said: "Wow!" - something like that, adding a suitably modest acknowledgement, as my admirer from below edged her way into the room and placed a tray of coffee and biscuits on her boss's desk.  I wanted to give her chubby cheeks a kiss, and pin a medal to her chest for having braved the stairs, but no - this time her smile was pure formality and she quickly returned to her duties elsewhere.

      Brian Smith coughed to regain my attention.  "Well, now - as you may know, Mr. Downing, these uncles of yours emigrated to the States some years ago, where they founded a manufacturing company in New Jersey.  For a while, it seems, it ran quite successfully - but no longer, by all accounts?"  

      Perhaps my lack of spontaneous mirth came as a disappointment.  He self-consciously cleared his throat, picked up a crumbly biscuit, and went on to explain how, although the uncles had tossed plenty of capital into the business, they showed dismal ineptitude in its day-to-day running.

      "In short, Mr. Downing, it's another drifting wreck on the high seas of American commerce - known locally, I'm told, as The Slagg Heap!   So," he went on, flicking crumbs from his shirt-front, "please don't imagine this makes you into a millionaire, far from it.  In fact you have inherited a mountain of debts and liabilities, a veritable turkey!  The Slagg factory employs about forty people, all hungry for their weekly pay cheques but more than ready to take days off whenever they feel like it.  In truth, how it continues to function as a going concern is a mystery to everyone we've consulted."

      "You're saying the legacy is worthless?"

      "How can I put it?  Financially, Mr. Downing, you do not hold the key to a gold-mine.  Personally, I'd feel more excited if someone were to present me with a cheese omelette.  But on paper, you do hold a ninety-percent interest, there's no doubt of that.  It won't bring you any income, so don't raise your hopes there.  My colleague in the States is currently trying to evaluate these shares for the purposes of estate duty."

      "Okay, you've made the point - they're worthless.  But, give me a nominal value."

      "Nominal?"  He paused to consult his documents.  "Oooh - something in the region of - seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars?  Roughly half a million in sterling.  But do not gasp with delight, Mr. Downing.  Do not rush back to London and buy yourself a Rolls-Royce!  This may just as well be Monopoly money.  Capital, you see, is a somewhat misleading term - it's simply the difference on paper between a company's assets and its liabilities.  In our view, the fixed assets are grossly over-valued, and we suspect that half the liabilities haven't even been recognised.  Sorry to sound technical."

      I smiled.  "It's several years since I qualified as a Chartered Accountant, Mr. Smith, but I still recall some of the jargon.  Tell me - these headless chickens, do they know who now owns the majority of shares?"

      "No, Mr. Downing, they do not!  For some reason, your uncles were keen to keep this legacy under wraps, maybe to avoid a family rift, who knows?   There's apparently one surviving director - a vice-president, to use the American term - and another minor shareholder whom we're still trying to trace.   But frankly, Mr. Downing, I doubt whether any of these chickens knows who Abraham Lincoln was, let alone who owns their damned company!"

      "And for the record, just who does own the company?"

      "From where I sit, Mr. Downing, it looks very much as if you do.  Congratulations!"

      He leaned across his desk and shook my hand like a headmaster on prize-giving day.

      "Thank you so much," I said.  "What do you suggest I do with it?"

      "Ah!  Good question!"  Mr. Smith reached for the last biscuit.  "It's entirely up to you.  You could, of course, go and have a look at the place.  Why not?  Then, when you've got over the shock of that, I'd say you had two options.  One is to pretend you don't exist, that we never managed to track you down, and you can then plead ignorance of the whole sorry mess."

      "Or?"

      "Move in!  Take charge!  You say you're an accountant?  Fine!  Couldn't be better.  That might explain why your uncles named you as sole beneficiary.  You're ideally qualified to decide for yourself whether you think there's any chance of turning this Slagg-heap into a viable concern.  Of course, it would be wrong for me to speculate, that's not my job.  Speaking personally I'd say it's a task that dwarfs raising the Titanic, but then I've always had a phobia about oceans."

      "Good point," I agreed.  "You glibly suggest I visit the place, but an Atlantic crossing costs more than a day-trip to the Isle of Wight."

      "Are you a wealthy man?" Mr. Smith asked bluntly.

      I already had a good income, but with a devastating mortgage I denied being wealthy.  I told him I was on the threshold of what promised to be a lucrative career, but having spent a fortune on my recent summer holiday, I barely had funds for my return rail fare, let alone a trans-Atlantic voyage.

      "Then I suggest you leave well alone," he advised, "or you'll only get in deeper than..."   He suddenly broke off, banged his palms on the desk like a two-year-old at the piano, and went over to his filing cabinet.

      "Are you married at all?" he asked as he hunted for something.

      I admitted a number of courtships, each sadly having gone bump in the night.  I was now into my early thirties yet remained a free spirit, largely because a girl who had recently aroused my fervour had suddenly walked out on me barely one week after I'd secured the house she wanted.  It wasn't an episode I was proud of, and I don't know why I bothered to share these details with a man who wasn't even listening.

      "Here we are!" he exclaimed, waving a slip of paper in the air like Neville Chamberlain.  "I've held onto this for nearly a year, hoping to use it myself, but I can't get away before the expiry date, not with the builders threatening to start work here.  It clearly says this voucher can be used by anyone I care to nominate.   I flew to New York a year ago," he explained, "and because of some delay due to over-booking I was handed a voucher for a free flight.  Maybe they're only good for stand-by, who knows, but you're welcome to take them.  At least a free trip to America might ease the disappointment of not becoming a millionaire."

      I duly thanked him and tucked the voucher into my wallet.  Mr. Smith stood gazing at me with a half-smile, as though envious of my new-found freedom.

      "May I suggest, Mr. Downing, if you do fly over and see your factory, don't try to seize control like Rambo or Attilla the Hun.   Best you don't commit yourself to anything till you've had a chance to snoop around.  See what you can learn about the place before letting anyone know who you are or why you're there, eh?"

      "Mr. Smith, these Yanks won't even know I'm in their country.  Do I need a visa to visit the States?"

      "Not for a social visit, no, and that's all your trip will be - a purely social visit.  However, you might like to have some contact on the other side, so make a note of this number."

      He handed me a visiting card, detailing an American firm of lawyers.

      "This chap Greenwald knows a lot more about Slaggs than I do - but remember, if you do contact him, yours is just a social visit.  A little holiday, Mr. Downing, with our compliments.  Let us know how you get on."

      We shook hands and I left, my main disappointment being the absence of the chubby girl whose parting smile I would have relished.   Would it have faded abruptly if I'd informed her I wasn't a millionaire after all, or had she known this all along?

      Back in London, the next few days were filled with activity.   I explained the circumstances to my boss, who graciously conceded that I might take a few days' compassionate leave.  When I pointed out that the visit might actually provide me with a useful insight into American commercial practices, he grudgingly extended it to a week.

      I immediately obtained a bank-loan of a thousand pounds, and bought travellers' cheques.  I also sought the advice of several office colleagues who had visited the States.

      "Crossing the pond, eh?  Lucky devil!" exclaimed one.

      With a pale smile I reminded everyone of the distressing reason for my trip, determined that my leave should be seen as an unfortunate pilgrimage following the untimely death of three dear relatives, and not as a week of reckless whoopee!

      The airline company assured me I stood a fair chance of getting a seat on their Saturday flight to New Jersey, so I put through a trans-Atlantic call to Jim Greenwald.  I made no mention of my connection with the Slagg family, but I did extract from him the name of a moderately-priced hotel in the vicinity of the factory, where I then made a provisional reservation.

      Saturday dawned.  I entered the vast concourse at Gatwick, and made my way to the airline desk where I introduced myself to a charming lady who was extremely sympathetic about my multiple bereavement, and graciously exchanged my voucher for a valid ticket.

      Feeling intensely privileged and mildly ecstatic, I watched my suitcase disappear into the bowels of the baggage handling system and I was free to roam unhindered.   I bought a postcard and posted it to Brian Smith, thanking him for the ticket and assuring him I was on my way.  Then, like an excited child, I filed through to the departure lounge.  I stepped warily through the electronic scanner, but no alarm bell sounded!  I already had my eye on an attractive security lady who stood ready to thrust caressing hands under the armpits of any suspect passenger, though perversely she seemed ready to offer this quick thrill only to females.  I received not so much as a tickle from anyone.  

      Avoiding the temptations of the duty-free shop, I cast my gaze around the lounge to reflect upon the milling cross-section of humanity - businessmen near a book-stall hovering anonymously beside magazines of questionable taste - countless package-holiday-makers, bogged down by frustrated children who begged to know how much longer they might be kept waiting.  A cynic might have drawn a parallel here with cattle about to enter an abattoir.

      In due course I made my way to the boarding gate, and as we edged forward I couldn't help wondering why it took so long to get everyone on board when the emergency evacuation was expected to take mere seconds.  But my journey had so far been founded on good fortune and optimism, so I cast every doubt aside, and dutifully took my seat.

      At last the plane edged slowly back from the gate.  The moment of truth had come, just on four o'clock.  By late evening I would be either in the United States of America, or somewhere much colder and wetter, perhaps to be reunited with my mother and three uncles.  To stave off mild concern, I concentrated on a cute stewardess in the opposite aisle, and fantasized that within seven hours she'd be hopelessly in love with me.

      We paused momentarily at the end of the runway.  Then, with a sudden surge, we were off.  The engines reached full power, then screamed again in protest as they doubled their efforts.  Pinned back in our seats we raced into the unknown, tilted back, and climbed.

      I had hoped for a window seat, to enjoy an aerial view of Britain, but this privilege had already been claimed by a woman in her late fifties who seemed far from happy with her choice.  She exuded tangible terror from the moment we took off, clutching at everything in desperation as though the floor beneath her were paper-thin.  Her knuckles grew white with the grip until a hostess came by with refreshments and she had to let go.

      I ordered a gin and tonic and settled down to watch the small flickering video.  I never intended falling asleep at this exciting time, but was suddenly awakened by my favourite stewardess who enticed me back to reality with a small tray of dinner.

      It was really a second lunch for those who'd already reset their watches, but for me, time had slipped into neutral as a blissful five-hour midday siesta hovered over us.  Whether I was eating lunch or dinner, it mattered not.  It tasted good and I ordered wine to go with it.

      My tense neighbour did not drink, nor did she give the impression that my doing so met with her approval, eyeing my glass as if it were a dirty magazine.  I did my best to break the ice.

      "Do you fly often?" I asked pleasantly.

      She stiffened at once, clinging to her seat with renewed anxiety as if on an exposed aerial chair-lift.  It would have been kinder, I felt, to have given her a general anaesthetic on departure and shipped her overseas in a crate, sooner than subject her to such torment.  It also crossed my mind that a couple of neat gins slipped quietly under her tongue might have given her enough confidence to stagger to the front and fly the plane herself!

      When the captain warned of likely turbulence ahead, my neighbour fixed her gaze on the overhead luggage rack and prepared to die.  The plane began vibrating as if the air beneath us had gone all lumpy, and she was on the verge of giving herself last rites when the captain apologised for the discomfort.

      "It seems we've found a quaint cobbled street up here," he said, "but the guys ahead assure me this won't last long.  Meanwhile for those of you who thrive on statistics, we've reached our cruising altitude of thirty-five thousand feet.  We have on board some sixty thousand gallons of fuel, enough to keep your family car running for several hundred years."

      He continued to pacify us with trivia until the buffeting ceased and we were instructed to relax and enjoy the in-flight movie.

      "Lindberg never had this luxury," I murmured to my neighbour, closing my eyes before she could reply.

      When I awoke there was land below, and the knowledge of this fact gave me an irrational sense of security.  If we were to crash, I reasoned, it would be no longer be into the depths of a cold ocean but onto some nice solid rocks.  I didn't share these philosophical concepts with the nervous wreck beside me, lest she might attempt suicide with her plastic airline cutlery.

      After another snack we were given customs and immigration forms to complete, and advised to prepare for landing.  Air-brakes came on and the undercarriage was lowered with a rumble that brought my neighbour close to cardiac arrest.  She listened in abject terror as I explained:

      "That's just the captain putting down some wheels!  Planes land more smoothly when they have nice little wheels to trundle along on."

      The plane touched down, roaring loudly as the engines were thrown into reverse, but I didn't explain this as my friend was now feigning death.  I never saw her again, but I sincerely hoped for her sake that she was not destined to endure a return flight "across the pond."

      We disembarked, filing wearily into the terminal building and standing in a slow-moving line before being summoned to a private booth and questioned:  What was my occupation?  Why was I here?  Whom was I visiting?  Would I be working here?  Who would pay me if I did?  How long did I plan to stay?  What size was my shirt and did I ever wear bed-socks?

      It seems I gave the right answers.  My immigration card was stamped and clipped inside my passport.  I reclaimed my luggage - then had to wait in line again while customs officers asked me the same questions in reverse:  Why was I here?  What was my occupation?  Was I carrying haggis or live vegetables?  Had I a dead cat in my sponge-bag?

      At last I was free to explore America.  Beyond the customs hall stood a milling crowd ready to greet incoming friends and relatives.  To my surprise I saw a uniformed gentleman standing well to the fore, holding up a large card with my name on it.  I queried this, but he assured me he'd been hired to drive me to the same hotel where I had made my reservation.  So much for a low profile!

      But why?  Had he been sent by Slaggs?  Had word leaked out that I was a millionaire after all, or was this a free service provided by the airline as a reward for eating up my carrots?

      The evening air felt hot and steamy as I followed the chauffeur to a needlessly long white limousine.  Yet as we pulled away, I found myself in an air-conditioned environment so crisp that I shivered throughout the entire journey, partly with apprehension as I wondered how much I might be expected to pay for this unsolicited honour?

      When half an hour later when we reached the hotel, there was no talk of money.  I thanked the driver profusely and stepped from his icebox into the balmy heat of the evening.  He followed on with my luggage as far as the lobby where he saluted and left, adamant that all charges were well taken care of.

      Wearily I announced my name at the desk.  I checked in, lugged my cases to the elevator, and dragged them down a long fourth-floor corridor to my room, too exhausted to think of eating.  It was still twilight outside, but I'd been active for over twenty hours.  Within minutes I was in my pyjamas and ready for sleep in an enormously wide bed.  And why not?  After all, my watch confirmed that it was now two o'clock in the morning.

      With a smile of serene contentment on my face, I lay back, closed my eyes and tried to relax.  Unfortunately, as I was soon to realise, Jim Greenwald's recommended hotel was not the most prestigious venue in town.

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