Bury Head Banger, the container is not at the published coordinates and you will find nothing there. the final must be worked out. Good Luck.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A carved wooden Owl looked out of a shop window. Staring at the bus stop across the street as if it were a hedgerow full of mice.
An unremarkable looking woman. Not young, not old, and not married, stood on the pavement and looked in at it, returning the stare. Owls she knew a little about. She knew a little about most things. This was a Tawny Owl, not a little Owl. No ear tufts, or was it the other way round? About wood though, she knew a little less. Guessed she could recognise oak, as that was the same as her photograph box. And she knew what mahogany looked like, as her small table in the lounge had been identified as such by her Father, whose word she believed in anything. The wood of The Owl was neither of these. Hadn't she heard that wood carvings were from lime wood, or apple, or pear? Anyway this Owl was light brown in colour with lighter bands of grain sweeping in a curve from ears to feet. The wood at the bird's breast was lighter still. She guessed, with no knowledge, that this had been the newest wood, the part of the tree close to the bark.
The Owl was large, over a foot tall, and she was relieved to see that its talons were not hooked into a carved, permanently suffering mouse or vole, but were curled round a thick log complete with carved knots and bark.
The shop was on the mid-day lunch-break route from her office to the City Centre. She went out every lunchtime to get some air, buy a sandwich, and indulge in a little real shopping and a lot of window shopping. There were always plenty of things she would have bought if she had the money. Strong common sense and a limited budget meant that things she saw and would have liked, but did not need, were left in the shops for someone else to buy.
This time was different. She did not want anyone else to buy The Owl. She wanted it as soon as she saw it. If she had been with a friend, and her companion had asked. 'Why do you want it?' Her reply would have sounded very feeble. 'Because of the way it looks out.' But that was the reason. The Owl concentrated, as if on a distant goal, and every grainy wooden feather led to its piercing eyes.
Her head should have walked her away from the window with a calculation of her finances, but her heart walked her through the door into the shop.
There were other customers but The Owl was close enough to the shop doorway to be accessible. She stood by it and put her hand on its head. It was smooth and just filled her palm. When she touched it something seemed to happen to her for which she could not find a word. The nearest she could get to it was 'cool', which was not normally in her vocabulary. She felt, and it was a new sensation to her, confident. She didn't have to apologise for the way she was with her hand touching The Owl. She did not have to feel vaguely sorry for her presence all the time. She felt as good and capable as anyone, not better, not worse, but as good as any other for the first time.
The white price tag round the birds neck had turned over and was showing its blank side. Though she was not now resting her hand on the Owl's head, the confidence had remained, and she did not worry what the price might be. Her previous habit of imagining a price of thousands, and going away did not affect her today. She flipped over the tag and bent down to look at the small writing. A hundred and twenty pounds. She felt a flush and her heart and breathing became irregular for a few moments. She let go the tag and put her hand back on the Owl's head. She would have it. She even looked around the shop nervously as if the people already being served were Owl buyers. There was only one couple who were just getting their change and receipt for a wicker washing basket. She was next. It would be hers. Unless, fear struck her, unless it had been bought and they ahd forgotten to move it out of the shop or two put a label on it. Time dragged and the wicker basket transaction seemed to take for ever.
Her mind raced through a series of lightning calculations. Stop the rental of the video recorder. Ten pounds a month. Forget the usual weeks holiday on the Isle of Wight this year. Use money already saved, sixty pounds. Use the money put away for Council Tax and Water Rates, forgetting the early payment discount. All this was against the pattern of her financial life. This purchase was as alien to her as gambling the money away, or spending it on drink.
The wicker basket left the shop and the assistant approached her. Perhaps he was expecting the usual response of 'Just Looking,' which he heard too many times a day. She anticipated his question.
'I wish to buy The Owl please.' She said, turning and indicated the carved Owl by placing her hand on its head again.
Owls.declares.questions, he had not had to work to sell it, or explain it. Not that he could have done much, except to say it was an Owl, carved out of wood, both of which were perfectly obvious. He smiled and nodded at The Owl as if he had been introduced to it.
She also pre-empted his next question.
'I haven't got my cheque book with me I'm afraid, and I don't have a credit card. I wish to leave thirty pounds to secure it and I will call in this evening before you close with a Building Society cheque for the balance.' She seemed to rush her words, though trying to speak clearly and deliberately. 'Will that be alright?'
The assistant still had not spoken, and was reaching for his pen.
She had a moment of real fear. Was he now going to write on the label, 'Sold to Mr Smith or Mrs Jones' and shake his head at her. Or would he just note her name now, to wait for full payment, and sell the owl in the meantime if he could?
'Is that alright?' She asked again, anxiously.
'Of course Madam.' He said. 'I'll just note on the label that it is sold to you. I'll put your name on it.'
She took her hand from The Owl's head. It was safe now. She could breathe again. 'Harrison.' She said, feeling, as usual, that she spoke her own name very strangely.
He wrote her name and the word 'SOLD' on the tag. She produced the thirty pounds and walked with him to the till to get the receipt.
'I'll be back at half past five.' she said. 'Thankyou very much.'
'That's fine.' He said, 'Thankyou.'
Outside the shop, she paused and looked at The Owl, her Owl. She was directly in its line of sight and it looked at her now. Not through her. It made her more solid, more real, her shadow was now darker on the pavement.
As she moved away she half expected the head to move smoothly on its feathered shoulders, but it looked for rodents in the bus shelter again as she hurried back to work.
She was Secretary to no-one in particular at a College of Further Education. She was accurate and thorough, dealing with enrolments, room allocations, timetables, payments and non-payments, and cafe takings, and anything else anyone cared to ask her to do. She had a colleague, but because this assistant was a permanently flustered woman with 'problems' the bulk of the work fell on the willing shoulders of Joan Harrison.
'It's heavy.' Said the assistant, as she collected The Owl. 'Are you sure you can manage it?'
She had paid the balance owing, The Owl, in a shapeless brown paper parcel was hers.
'Oh yes.' She said. 'I live close by.' This was true, but had she lived twice as far or more, and The Owl had been twice as heavy, she would have carried it home.