Gonby's Games Gone By

“Bloomin’ heck, Natty! What brings you here!”

It was the first time I’d seen Nathaniel ‘Gypsy’ Palmer since Wolves had left their old Dudley Road ground, never to return. In the days when football as we knew it, its rites and its rituals, were still being invented, Gypsy was somehow already a traditionalist. Though Molineux was closer to his home in Chapel Ash, he refused to follow the club there, and gave up what I’d considered his true passion for philately. His eyeglasses had become noticeably thicker in the intervening years. Yet here he was in the Sandon, Anfield, sipping his mild ale as if it was the King’s Arms in 1883.

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‘Are you Rocky, young maahn?’

‘Uh-huh, no, ma’am.  Rocky don’t tok moch.  Name’s Wullium.’

Uh-huh, yes, mate.  William Penksylvia Jr., it was, these days, though his dad’s name was Archibald, and Penksylvania was only slightly more like his surname than it was like… anything at all.  And he’d got this accent, bless him.

‘But it says “Rocky and the Reverbs.”’

‘Uh-huh, that’s us, ma’am.  Booked to play two gnahts at your beaudiful… movie… thee-ater…’

I knew neither how nor why Billy had got a gig in Ipswich.  Unknown by anybody outside of Three Tuns but for the occasional Low Hillbilly venturing into the Vine, he’d found himself with commitments to fulfil in Suffolk with a band that sent postcards home when they got east of Bushbury.  The gig was a paying one, of course, but with their earnings for the year sunk into petrol costs for the cross-country jaunt it was also a gamble.

Never able to secure a booking agent, Rocky and the Reverbs would go months without a show until Billy woke up in the wee hours with a ‘what-am-I-doing-with-my-life’ panic shaking his heart and dedicated two days and a fortnight’s dole on phone calls and stamps trying to kickstart his career.  A relative flurry of gigs would follow, during which he would consider himself too busy (and broke) to book any more shows and a long hiatus would thus naturally follow, along with, more often than not, enforced changes of personnel and some hefty vet’s bills (Rocky lived the lifestyle in ways the other Reverbs could only envy, with bitches lined up outside the stage door from the soundcheck until the gear was carried to the old Bedford CA van; where Elvis got screams the Reverbs got whining, and it was now part of the band’s routine to check open-backed speaker cabinets for would-be stowaways before embarking on the return journey to Three Tuns. 

I was just glad of the ride.  Our only previous trip to Portman Road had been the previous season, when we lost 2-1 to the newly-promoted side, and the fact that said side went on to become league champions that season provided little comfort.  I was keen for revenge, hoped the Wolves were too, and was more than happy to lift a big of gear to pay for my transport.  Furthermore, as the band was playing consecutive nights, there would be nothing to shift on the Saturday afternoon, allowing for extra post-match pints in what I hoped would be celebration.

It was at that point that Bob Jeffers (Bass guitar, b. vox) arrived at the foyer door with Rocky.

‘He’s done his business now, Billy.  If yow ‘old him for ten minutes I’ll start unlowdin’’

‘Why, satunly,’ said Willium Penksylvania Jr., with a curl of the lip.

‘Ya’ll ahfter stand artside, then.  No dargs allowed.’

‘Ah beg pardon ma’am, but thus dahg is, um, a lidl diff’rent.’

‘Et don’t look deff’rent to me.’

‘Itsan the band.  Access all areas.’

A couple of whining bitches had appeared at the entrance by now, provoking a powerful jerk on the lead.

‘Rocky!  Sit!’ shouting Billy.

‘Oh, so thas is Rocky as art?’

‘Thus correct, ma’am,’ said Billy.

‘Wall than it’ll just be Revarbs tonight.  Strictly no dahgs at the Gaumont.’

‘But he’s…’

‘No dahgs.  Or pets of any kind.’

‘Well actually,’ said Billy, his accent suddenly a lot more Southern Staffs than Southern States, ‘he’s not really a pet.  He’s more like a part of the…’

‘No dahgs or no show.  You decide.’

An emergency band meeting was convened at the nearby (dog-friendly) County Hotel.  Some of the group, it has to be said, were more than willing to let Rocky go, feeling for some reason that he was holding the band back.  Billy flatly refused to work without his dog, and after a couple of rounds, a solution was found:  Rocky would perform from inside the van, parked close to the stage door, via a long microphone cable fed through the dressing-room window.  It was hoped the sound of the backline would reach him from there (the days of full PA’s and foldback monitors were still some years away back then), and I would be sat with him in the van to keep him company and allow him comfort breaks during guitar solos and instrumentals.

The band took the stage at 8.30, to a fairly-decent-sized crowd (there was very little to do in Ipswich back then, and the only other rock’n’roll show Suffolk had ever known, Buddy Holly’s 1958 show at the same venue, was still the talk of the town).  It was a pleasant evening, even a little stuffy in the van, so I wound down the windows to let some air in and allow the twelve-bar-blues song structures to reach Rocky’s ears.  Within a few bars of their opener, ‘Tail Between My Legs’, hoards of bitches had descended upon us.  They were yelping, whining, attempting to climb onto the bonnet and increasing in number with every chorus.  By the fourth song I had to wind the windows up to keep the largest of them at bay, and I was in no doubt that at least two of the van’s tyres had been punctured.  The mic cable lasted another song before it was ripped apart, heralding the end of the Reverbs’ set.  I let Rocky out to meet his admirers, and headed inside to help with the gear.

The frenzied excitement that Rocky had provoked within his own species contrasted starkly with the reception the band had received from humans inside the venue.  Jimmy Grace (drums) likened it to a gig at a morgue, while Bob Jeffers preferred the lounge of the Three Tuns (‘at least you can hear people ordering drinks there’).  Lead guitarist ‘Pucker’ Beesley was more concerned that he had messed up two intros because of the dogs’ noise outside, while the only feedback Billy got from the audience was a disgruntled ‘ruhrbish’ or two.  Rocky’s future in the band was again brought up, a subject quickly dismissed by Billy, before the manageress arrived to inform us that Rocky and the Reverbs would not be required for Saturday night after all and the cheque for their performance had already been posted, so no cash would be forthcoming.  Furthermore, we would have to move the gear out straight away.  After protests and some choice language, Billy grabbed a 4×12 cab and led the way out as Pucker and I grappled gamely behind with his AC30. 

And then they saw the van.

An ill-tempered and somewhat histrionic post-mortem ensued, with everybody blaming everybody else for just about everything.  Then we caught last orders at the County, returned to find Rocky in deep sleep outside the van, and climbed inside for what was to be an even more uncomfortable night than had been expected, given that we were sharing the cramped space not only with each other but also an entire backline and vocal PA.

Fortunately, although the following night’s show had been cancelled, I was still guaranteed a lift home as the band would have to fit the new tyres themselves (all four had in fact been destroyed in the mayhem).  I set out early for the pub and found the Flying Squadron in fine spirits. 

As for the match – things couldn’t really have gone better.  Two equalisers and a winner will always get an away crowd giddy, and a 25-yard rocket from Alan Hinton and two late goals from Pete McParland did just that, blessing their loyal travelling support with a fifth consecutive away win and this particular erstwhile roadie with a surprisingly happy kip on the floor of the 1952 Bedford CA.

At the top of the hill we saw it, the Church of St Nicholas rising up through thick clouds of smoke.  I imagined it was what heaven would look like after centuries of purgatory, and checked the inside pocket of my jacket again with a light tap, hearing the reassuring rustle before following the rest of the Honourable and Worthy Pedallers down the hill towards our longed-for destination, Barton-in-the-Clay.

□ □ □ □ □

It had been a long day.  A quick stop-off at the Rose and Woodbine in Coventry extended past dark and we were forced to cover over a hundred miles the next day to get to Luton in time for the two o’clock kick off.  An early reveille from our harmonica player, Don Flatt, gave us a healthy start, however, and our thirsts informed our legs, getting us to Kenilworth Road with an hour to spare and appetites that would be a joy to sate.  ‘It’s a picturesque little place,’ I managed to say to Frank Copley, though the need for beer and snout was both clouding my vision and interfering with my speech. 

‘Ar,’ said Frank, ‘but it do’ exactly look built to welcome Wolves.’

What he meant by this wouldn’t dawn on me until later, for now there were more pressing things on my mind, like pressing open the door of the Black Horse and ordering as quickly as possible while dexterously placing a Woodbine on my lower lip and striking…

‘Oi!  What on earf do you fink you’re doin’?’ came a voice from behind the bar, ‘Bob:  fetch the constable!’

Two dozen unlit cigarettes bobbed up and down in time as two dozen South Staffordshire voices said What’s the matter?’

‘Do not light those matches!’ cried the landlord.

I looked around the public bar.  You rarely saw ‘No Smoking’ signs in those days outside of coal mines, and there didn’t appear to be any in the Black Horse. 

‘Could you at least continue to draw those pints,’ said Ezekiel Graves after twenty seconds of shocked silence, ‘I’ve got a thirst on me like a swarm of locusts.’

‘We’ll see what the Constable has to say first,’ replied the landlord.

I was about to ask what any of this had to do with the Constable when a gust of January air blew into the bar and a plump, freshly shaven policeman entered with ‘Bob’ and a man in a strange red uniform.

‘What seems to be the trouble here, then?’ said the copper.

‘These… strangers… were about to light about two dozen fires,’ said the landlord.  ‘Thought you ought to know, Harry.’

‘Yes, thank you, Sid.  Now could I ask you gentlemen to put any matches you may have on the bar, please.’

As Honourable and Worthy Pedallers, we had no wish to antagonize the law, and conformed to the policeman’s request. 

‘Is this a no-smoking establishment?’ asked Natty Painter, placing his Bryant and May on the bar.

‘Are you trying to be funny?’ asked the Constable Harry.

‘No.  I’m just trying to enjoy a pint before the match.’

‘Here, here,’ came some muttered approval.

The man in the red uniform spoke at this point, in a weird, needling voice.  ‘Make them jump up and down, Harry.’

‘Christ and two sticks!’ said Ezekiel Graves, ‘What on earth is happening here?’

‘You can cut that language out for starters,’ warned the constable.  ‘Do what the Fire Warden says, please.’

‘We have just ridden a hundred miles on bicycles.  We are not going to jump up and down – certainly not before we’ve had some rest, some beer and some cigarettes.’

‘Like I said,’ muttered Frank Copley, ‘Not a place built to welcome Wolves.’

It was then that the penny dropped.  It was not unusual, of course, to see straw-lined floors in a public bar in those days, but the picturesque town I had admired was more than just rustic.  Plaited straw was everywhere: the furniture was made of it, the chairs and tables and the bar were made of it, and even the walls of the pub appeared to have been constructed entirely of plaited straw.  And all the picturesque buildings that had lined the street when we arrived were made entirely of straw, too.  Probably strong enough to withstand the huffs and puffs of two dozen wolves, but a single spark might raze the town to the ground.

‘If you cannot jump up and down and prove you have no more incendiary devices on you, I will have to arrest you.  This is a no smoking town.’

‘What if we stand outside?’

‘The streets are made of straw,’ said Constable Harry, as he collected the matchbooks and matchboxes from the bar, ‘The street signs are made of straw, and when you get to the football ground you’ll see that’s made of straw too.’

‘But I saw a tobacconist’s down the road…’

‘If snuff is your pleasure, Mr Talke’s emporium is well worth a visit.  He may even have some cigarettes and pipe tobacco for sale.  But you won’t find a light there or anywhere else in Luton.  Now please, jump up and down like the Fire Warden says.’

We looked at each other with glum faces.  Frank Carding, Jimmy Blight and Bob Crockett placed some spare matchboxes on the bar, shrugged our shoulders and jumped.

‘Excellent.  The Fire Warden will be accompanying you to the ground to be sure you are safe; there are plenty of fire stewards in attendance on match days who will do the same once you’re on the ground.  Enjoy the game and your drinks, Gentlemen.’

Enjoyment is relative.  Though Wolves won out against the Straw Plaiters, and Bill Barraclough and Wilf Lowton in particular had excellent games, every time the ball was out of play all I could think about was smoking.  At 2-1 we were all biting our nails for the final whistle, but carried on biting them until our fingers were wrapped around our handlebars and we were cycling feverishly north, towards the first pub that would allow us to combine our pleasures.  So driven were we that I don’t think Antonin Magne himself could have kept up with the pace.

□ □ □ □ □

As we descended the hill into the village of Barton-in-the-Clay gusts of cigarette smoke pulled us in like the hands of angels.  I inhaled joyful gusts of passive smoke from the pavements lined with smokers chatting, laughing and coughing as nature intended.  Church bells rang through the twilight and we parked up and walked through the sturdy streets.  Ezekiel Graves even stroked the stone wall of the Royal Oak before we entered, and Jack Dudley looked ready to lick the nicotine stains off the plaster in the public bar. 

‘Twenty four pints of your best bitter,’ said Natty Painter, turning round and adding ‘What are you having, lads?’ with a glint in his eye.

‘Twenty four boxes of matches, as well,’ called Ezekiel from the door. 

‘I’m sorry chaps; you’re out of luck.  The barrel’s just gone.’

‘Pale, then…’

‘We have no…’

‘Porter, stout… anything…’

‘No beer tonight, boys.  There was a big wedding.  I’ll be getting in a delivery on Monday.’

‘Are there any other pubs in the village?  An outdoor?  Social club?’

The landlord shook his head. 

‘I’m afraid not,’ he said, sadly, ‘Now, do you still want those matches?’    

‘Bloody guwowees, now!’ muttered Chimdy to me, with a roll of the eyes.

I smiled and reached for my Senior Service. 

Though the game we were meandering to at the City Ground was largely meaningless, with Wolves already relegated and Forest with nothing to play for but a fourth-place finish in the days when that meant as much as a 22^nd place finish, for The Vehicular Carpenters and Conifer Conveyance Constructors of Codsall and Castlecroft (VCCCCCC) it was a top-of-the-table clash – even, perhaps, a cup final.  After strong local showings against Cannock Chase Coniferous Conveyors and the confusingly-named Pendeford Pine Perambulators (they were actually from Aldersley) they suddenly found themselves facing the giants of the game, a team so steeped in history that to visit their home ground was to take a soak yourself in the primeval soup of log-carting as a sport. 

And the VCCCCCC were getting a bit giddy about it.

It had started, naturally enough, with Robin Hood.  Bob Whitehead had claimed a distant relative was Friar Tuck, which caused merriment among the men as ‘Friars day have girlfriends.’  Bob argued that Friar Tuck was a renegade, had more girlfriends than ‘Handsome’ Joey Briggs (though a Wednesfield lad, Joey’s reputation reached across the town) and that it had been he, rather than Robin Hood, who had successfully wooed Maid Marian.  The truck driver, Wally Harburst, pulled in at Brownhills, opened the back doors and called a hault to this line of conversation, as the pretend swordfights would affect how the lorry handled on Watling Street.

Once on the move again, the talk was of a pack of wild dogs who had marked their territory on the Major Oak and made the area entirely unsafe for humans.  Bob Whitehead agree with Shem Carver that the dogs were dangerous, and he also added that they wore medieval costumes and carried bone swords, a claim taken less than seriously but restated by Whitehead with oaths of the most grievous nature. 

Not even Bob Whitehead, however, made any case for the existence of guwowees.  This was purely the work of Frankie Nash, the oldest VCCCCCC.  He spoke just as the battery-powered lamp gave out, so his face was mostly illuminated by the cigarettes of his audience, sitting around him cross-legged amid the tools and machinery, but even in this dramatic light we couldn’t suspend our disbelief.  The guwowees he described as jelly-like entities measuring around twelve feet in height, though this was an average as they were capable of adopting any shape.  I decided at this point to adopt the shape of a sleeping human and didn’t wake up until we reached the forest.

Chimdy was not a member of the VCCCCCC, but his keen piloting and engineering skills had caught their attention.  They had unsuccessfully invited him to join a couple of times, but in the end settled for his making the occasional guest appearance with them if it coincided with the Wolves’ calendar; for The Vehicular Carpenters and Conifer Conveyance Constructors of Codsall and Castlecroft, a battle with Major Oak more than warranted the playing of their trump card.  I was happy to help cart some of the gear towards the competition area and watch proceedings, but I had made it clear I wouldn’t be getting my suit dirty with any chopping or sawing.

Oddballs they might have been, but the VCCCCCC could certainly build.  Within an hour they had felled a 60-year old Oak, made pretty sturdy axles from some lower branches and hewn out a cockpit from the trunk, while all the while singing the Anthem of the Vehicular Carpenters and Conveyance Constructors of Codsall and Castlecroft, a loping slow waltz:

The…
VCC-CCC-C we are,
We travel quite near and sometimes quite far
We chop with our axes and saw with our saws
At speeds the world never has seen before

The carts that we make are not built to last
But if you’ve got a hill they’ll go ever so fast
If you’re good with a chopper it’s never too late
To join the VCCCCCC, my mate.

Chimdy was assiduous with the steering design – as pilot, his life would depend upon it in this densely wooded section of Sherwood.  The choosing of the axle, from three the VCCCCCC had put together, was a case in point.

‘It needs to handle, Bob!’

‘I know, George, but the weight…’

‘Give me a choice between a broken axle and an oak to the face I’ll take the broken axle.  But it looks strong enough to me anyway…’

‘You know, we’ve been doing this a while…,’ said Bob.  I understood where he was coming from.  I knew he respected Chimdy, but he did have experience with wood.

‘Give me the narrower one; I’ll manage,’ said Chimdy, in a way that was calm but also authoritative.  The discussion was over.

Half an hour later, Major Oak wheeled their cart from their preparation area behind some gorse, to join the VCCCCCC creation at the start lline (vehicles were never named in these competitions, probably due to them only seeing out a single race).  Dougie Winterton and Fred Giles were trying to sand down the nose a bit more, but it was ready, its steering reins hanging over the cockpit wall.  Chimdy looked over at the Major Oak pilot, a pointy, moustachioed man, and nodded.  Then a third man emerged from the crowd and climbed into the Major Oak vehicle.

‘Copilots?’ shouted Shem Carver.

‘Yeah.’

‘What are yow on aboot?’

‘April races eralways copiloted.  You need ter get ter more away games, pal.’

Some conference took place amongst the VCCCCCC.  I didn’t really know why.  Major Oak were the sport’s royalty, and nobody spends three hours building a log cart and then not race it.

Finally Chimdy split away from the group and walked towards me.  ‘Get in,’ he said.

‘Me?’ I said, ‘Surely one of the lads will want to ride.  It’s their hard work after all…’

‘I know,’ he said, ‘but whichever one they picked would always want to interfere.  Just sit there and enjoy the view.’

So we climbed in – it was a bit of squeeze, in truth, given that the cockpit hadn’t been hewn for two – and waited for the guy holding the leafy branch to bring his arm down.  When he did there was a concerted heave from the VC6’s behind the vehicle and we began careering down the hill towards the Major Oak.  I admit it was a thrill, and wouldn’t have swapped my place now for all those ethical concerns.  Chimdy weaved through the trees expertly, and took a healthy lead.

That’s when I felt it.  One look to my right confirmed that Chimdy had felt it too.  Before I’d even asked he said, without taking his eyes off the track, “Axle.”

I braced myself and felt a bump on the underside of the log.  We were still [bump!] travelling, still ahead; the incline might [bump!] even see us to the Major Oak, looming up around three [bump!] hundred yards away.  But equally the log might [bump!] just disintegrate, get stuck in the ground.  We came to a stop. I looked around and saw the Foresters gaining ground quickly.  I looked at Chimdy.

‘We’ve lost this,’ I said, but he didn’t reply.  He was looking ahead with a mixture of wonder and fear.

I turned to see what he was looking at.

A large jelly-like object had emerged – I had no idea where from – and it reached out towards Major Oak’s cart as it overtook us.  Quickly the blob formed hands and trapped the vehicle and then launched it powerfully back up the hill.  I saw its crew fall out, the spoiler they had fitted to the back break.  I also saw some of their number break ranks and run away.

‘Get out and push!’ said Chimdy.

‘What?’

‘We need to win this,’ he said.

‘What if it comes back?’

‘Jack Dudley has put eight bob on this race.  Now who are you more scared of?  The guwowees or Margaret Dudley?

I got out and pushed us over the line, helped by a few VC6’ers who were fleeing the carnage above.  Jack won his money, the Wolves won a consolation victory, and The Vehicular Carpenters and Conifer Conveyance Constructors of Codsall and Castlecroft were on the map as a team to be reckoned with.  All in all not a bad day out and one with plenty of talking points to cover in the William Gunn afterwards.  Up the Wolves!

“This can’t be right, Dicky.”

“It’s what the map says,” replied Dicky Toolan, with a shake of the AtoZ we’d fortuitously found discarded on the train down to Paddington.  It was to be the first new ground we’d visited for some time, and there was an atmosphere of adventure as we boarded the first train from Low Level station with Archie Trammer and some of his mates from the Chubb works.  That seemed a long time ago now.  “The Breakfast Boys”, as the Chubb lot were informally known, had headed off in search of a greasy spoon in W2 while we changed at Hammersmith for the Piccadilly line to Boston Manor.  That also seemed a long time ago now, too.

“Shout up if you see a pub” said Jack Dudley, impatiently.

“We know, Jack,” came the choral reply.

It was a beautiful February morning, still crisp underfoot from a sharp frost, but with the kind of particulate fog that lends a patina to the landscape, beautifying everything almost as much as sunshine.  The twelve of us were crossing a wide, well-tended lawn, vapours emitting from between rosy, shaven cheeks and joining the misty atmosphere.  From it distance, it would have looked as though speaking, laughing, even breathing itself were a vice, like smoking.  Anyway we were usually smoking as well.

“How far, Dicky?” asked Jack.

“Don’t know.  Near.  Quarter of a mile, maybe?”

We trundled on, watched by crows from their perches in naked yews and elms, the conversation weaving between Wolves’ stop-start, mid-table season, Magnificent Obsession starring Robert Taylor, and that darkness on the edge of Europe, Germany.  Only on this last topic did we all agree.

“This can’t be the way,” said Reg Farley, as we approached a large glass structure.  “Here, Dicky, let us have a look…”

“Dicky can read a map,” I said sternly, and not for nothing: there had been a time when Dicky Toolan went to every away game with the North Street and Staveley Orienteers.  Yeah, Dicky could read a map.

“In here,” he said, his clear words cutting the cold air like a cleaver.

Hesitation, sideways glances, quizzical looks.

“Here?”

“Here.” nodded Dicky, confidently.  

A crow cawed in the distance.

“This is a greenhouse, Dicky.”

“Not according to this,” he said, tapping the front cover of the AtoZ.

“To be honest, mate,” I said, quietly, “It does look like a greenhouse.”

“Four hundred yards through here, then turn left and we’re at the ground.  Should find a pub nearby.  Come on.”

Feeling it was best to let him have his way (either he’d get us there or, after leading us up a single-paned cul-de-sac, he’d take a back seat on the navigating), I shrugged my shoulders and followed him through the glass door.  Amid grumbles and chuckles, so did the others.  After about seventy yards of dense flora and lepidoptera, we reached a third wall of glass and turned around.  Wafting butterflies from his face, Dicky said,

“This isn’t right.  It’s not what the map says.”

“Bugger the map,” said Reg Farley.

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When we got back to the entrance, it had been padlocked from the outside.  

“We’ll have to break a window,” said Reg.

“We can’t do that,” said Jack, gazing lovingly at a Karner Blue which had settled on the back of his hand.  “It’s a Butterfly House.”

“That’s not what the map says,” quipped Reg, to appreciative laughter.

“Look,” I said, “whoever locked us in here has clearly made a mistake, and he won’t have got far.  Make enough noise and he’ll come back and let us out.

And we began to sing the song we always sang on such occasions:

Let us out!  Let us out!
We’re stuck in your butterfly house!
There must have been a mistake of some kind!
You’ve snapped the lock and left us behind.

We live in Wolverhampton, Staffs,
Not a large outbuilding made of glass
This isn’t home to me or any of ‘em
It’s a bloody lepidopterarium!

We’ve got nothing against entomology
But an amateur biologist could see
That what we really want to study
Is Wolverhampton Wanderers F.C.!

Let us out!  Let us out!  Let us out of here!
Kick-off is approaching and we want some beer!

After two dozen or so repetitions, we saw some familiar crossing the lawn, heading directly towards us.  On arrival, Archie Trammer tried pulling at the door, and was about to walk off when he heard us bang on the glass.  He chose Les Graham to pick the lock.

“That’s not what the map says.”

In less than a minute the lock had been picked, and the Chubb Boys had joined us in the Butterfly House.  I immediately asked them why they’d done this.

“This is the way to the ground,” said Archie, raising an AtoZ in evidence.

“Where did you get that?”

“Someone had left it in our compartment.”

We heard noise outside, and saw a figure in green serge run off into the mist.  It took seconds to confirm we’d been locked in again.

“We’ll have to break a window,” said Archie.

“We can’t do that,” groaned Jack, “It’s a butterfly house.”

We knew there was no point singing for our captor, but we couldn’t agree on what to do instead.  Jack and I wandered around admiring the lepidoptera for a while, while the Chubb lot bragged about what a nice breakfast they’d had and others just sat on the floor smoking.  Every so often, discussion broke out between those who prioritized escape, and those who believed preservation of the collection to be more important.  These discussions always got nowhere then subsided.  Outside the crows appeared to be enjoying our plight, mocking us with sardonic caws.

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There was no shortage of glum faces in the butterfly house after an hour of frustration, and no face was glummer than that of Dicky Toolan, the lad whose renowned map-reading skills had led us to captivity.  But his was the first face to change.  He stood up suddenly with a look of surprise, and then recognition.  I had barely made out the faint sound of distant whistling (coo, coo-coooooo coo), by the time Dicky had started to respond.

Coo-coo-coo, cooooo, cooooo, cooooo, coo-coo-coo.

Within three minutes, the North Street and Staveley Orienteers were at the entrance to the butterfly house.  Bob Chase set upon the padlock in a much less refined way than Les Graham had done (“he always carries an hommer” explained Dicky) and we were out within seconds.

“You’ve been using bad charts!” said Larry Dann crossly, “Did we teach you nothing, Richard Toolan?”

“You taught me to whistle,” said Dicky.

“Ar,” smiled Larry, “Good job an’all.”

“How did you know?” asked Reg Farley.

Bob Chase was accepting a Senior Service from Jack Dudley, “I got a tip off,” he said, “From our kid.”

At this the whole party stopped.  And then groaned.

“I’d go via Euston next time, if I were you,” he chuckled.

Bob’s brother Trevor was a boiler-fitter at a well-known locomotive works, just a couple of miles north of the Low Level station.  I would like to tell you we got the last laugh, arriving on time for a mauling of the newly-promoted side, but, after a couple of pints in the Royal Oak, we saw every minute of a 5-0 defeat, including a bizarre own goal by Bill Morris.  I have no idea how much time and expense went into our rivals’ cunning ruse, but that day has stuck long in the memory as the day we were bemused by butterflies and Bees, and stung by Stafford Road.

It was the fifth vet who told me that in order to cure Cerberus’ toothache I’d have to revisit the Land of the Dead. Or words to that effect. [For the story of how Gonby first visited the Land of the Dead and obtained Cerberus, click here]

‘I can assure you, sir,’ he said, in a stuffy tone, ‘That I will not be examining that or any of your creature’s mouths.’

‘But he’s clearly in pain,’ I protested.

‘I suggest you take it to whatever depraved hell-hole you obtained it from. And quickly, before I call the authorities.’

‘But I thought you had a duty of care. The Hippocratic oath, was it?’

‘Hippocrates treated humans. I treat animals. Neither discipline qualifies us to treat… that!’

I crouched down and stroked Cerberus’ back. The tail wagged, but most likely from the other two heads, who had been in a chipper mood since breakfast. I served him banana and brains so as not to challenge his ailing mouth, which continued to snarl and slobber over the tiled floor of the surgery. I could understand the vet’s fear, though I still didn’t care for his attitude, or for that of the other four vets we’d visited. At least this one had a practical suggestion.

The start of the season was upon us, and with the Villa away game falling on the bank holiday, there was every chance that “Handsome” Joey Briggs could “borrow” the Merlin, and we could stop off at Hades on the way to the game.

□ □ □ □ □

We set off as soon as Natty and Jim Painter had returned from Leicester (they’d cycled with the Honorable and Worthy Pedallers, while Jack Dudley and I had taken the train; it was Jack’s wedding anniversary and we thought it best he show his face at home for a couple of hours before boarding the Merlin that evening). Brave Genevieve, who had once been stone, was tucking deeply into her nosebag when the brothers arrived, while Cerberus snatched a fitful slumber in a basket I’d made up for him; ‘Handsome’ Joey Briggs had his hand on the tiller.

‘All aboard, brave Merlinauts!’ shouted Fred Carp, ‘And let us make stories told to babbies until Helios takes his final rest.’

‘Zeus forbid,’ I muttered to Jack, ‘any Titanomachy needs to be over before eleven if we’re going to get a pre-match pint.’

It was a calm August evening, and dragonflies dipped and skimmed across the water before us. Though Fred had brought his lyre, he limited himself to occasional arpeggios, allowing us to enjoy the calm and the flagons of Butler’s Best we’d secured for the journey. We all knew the peace would not last, and we were in no mood to interrupt the quiet with tales of previous adventures, elegant though Fred’s parataxis could be. Girls blew kisses and waved at us (or more precisely, Joey) from fields, wharfs and upstairs windows. And then night began to draw in, and our fears whetted, and we no longer craved quiet but longed for the sound of each others’ voices

Courage, Brave Merlinauts, Courage,
‘Tis only the Land of the Dead,
Hades might be pleased to see us
Persephone might have made up some beds

Yes, we stole the Rich One’s puppy,
The three-headed pooch of Plouton,
Some Titans kill for less than that, but
Of those Hades, I’m sure, ain’t one

Refrain:
Now don’t eat or drink where we’re going
If you do, you’ll never come back,
And you can’t watch the Wolves
When you’re living with skulls
Where there’s no old gold, only black.

There’ll be time enough for drinking
When me land at the Beehive again
And we tell our adventures
To the beer-serving wenches
And the hard-working factory men.

The trolls were at their usual bridge, and jumped with excitement at the site of Genevieve, led by Natty Painter. After fussing the horse they all boarded the Merlin with running jumps, save for Flame-haired Bumble, sightless slayer of Gladys the Gorgon, who traversed the tow-rope with strong hands. Once aboard, he immediately asked us for food. This time we had come prepared, with leftovers from the anniversary meal Margaret Dudley had made her Jack, and the trolls tucked in as we moored at the Beehive and entered, expecting a triumphant welcome and drinks on the house, in exchange for the retelling of our adventures.

Unfortunately, although landlord Bill and his large family and bevvy of comely serving wenches had no difficulty recognizing us, the welcome was a much more subdued one than we had been expecting. This could only partly be explained by Jim Painter having ‘accidentally’ got engaged to one of the barmaids on our last visit, and subsequently forgetting about the promise entirely.

‘How’s business been, Bill?’ I asked the landlord, as he pulled us our pints.

‘Much better since you slayed Gladys. Thanks again for that.’

‘No problem. How much do I owe you…?’

Bill considered the question more carefully than I had been hoping. ‘I’ll take care of this round,’ he said eventually, ‘But if the Rich One comes in you’ll have to get your own.’

‘The Rich One? You mean Hades?’ blurted Jack Dudley.

‘Shhh!’ said Bill nervously, ‘The very same. He’s started drinking in here lately. Hanging around with his nephew/stepson Dionysus.’

Jack grimaced at the family connection, but I shot him a stern look before he could comment. ‘Tipton,’ I reminded him under my breath.

‘He didn’t take well to losing his dog,’ continued the landlord, ‘and he gets a bit lonely when his wife’s away.’

‘But there’s a pub in the Underworld! He even tried to charge me a deposit on a flagon from the Outdoor of the Dead!’

‘That’s too close to home. Persephone hears about everything that goes on there.’

‘Right,’ I said, the beginning of a plan coming together in my mind, ‘What time does he normally get here?’

Bill shrugged his shoulders. ‘Anytime between twelve and ten. If he comes at all. Tell your lyricist to pack that in.’ (Fred was invoking the muse to begin the Epic of the Merlinauts).

Tiresias, the blind seer, was seated in his usual spot by the window of the public bar. I gave him a Capstan Full Strength, and described in detail the clouds of smoke which he blew across the table. Through his interpretations, he confidently predicted that Hades would be leaving his house at 6.04, arriving at 6.15.

Chimdy, Jack and I left the Beehive at 5.55 and tied Genevieve to the stern of the Merlin, dragging her back up the Old Main Line, so as to be out of sight of Tiresias when he and Dionysus arrived up Dudley No.1. We took Cerberus from his comfy bed and hid him in the hold with the trolls, who were very good with animals, and would keep the dog happy and silent — a vital task, for Cerberus’ minor triad barks would be instantly recognized by his former owner. I donned a dark cape and slipped off the boat to look out for the gods from a safe distance.

Tiresias was an infallible seer, and the two arrived on the dot at 6.15. I gave them a few minutes to get settled, and then led Genevieve over the bridge and down the towpath of the Dudley branch, towards the tunnel that would take us to the Land of the Dead.

Jack and Chimdy had never before seen the dark imagery of the Dudley Tunnel, and as we watched the skeletons of ferrets chase the skeletons of rabbits, and rain shoot upwards from dead trees and shrubs, and rows of lifeless skulls watch motion pictures of Mae West, they became fearful and longed for home. Their unease unsettled Cerberus, who paced about the coal on the deck of the Merlin, impatiently swishing his tail.

The Pub of the Dead was much busier than it had been on my last visit, and so it took a long time to get served at the Outdoor of the Dead. Through the hatch I could see the packed public bar, where the souls gave off a sulphury stench and moaned constantly. Finally, a spectral serving wench appeared. ‘The usual, bab?’ she asked, with a wide calavera smile,.

‘I suppose so, ar,’ I said, accepting the flagon of ale and the crisps which would be empty but whose air would return Cerberus to a healthier past state. That was, at any rate, how I imagined things would work — with no wizard to consult on this occasion, it was the only recipe at my disposal.

I paid and turned to leave, only to be confronted with the sight of a forlorn, drenched figure leaning on an oar. Panic ran through my body like mercury. If Charon chose to, he could soon row up to the Beehive and tell Hades of his dog’s return; with the Merlinauts split into two groups, he would have a greater chance of defeating us, and the Dionysus character he was hanging around with was an unknown quantity in battle. The ferryman and I stared at each other in silence, before he said, ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Mind your own business, transporter. I haven’t forgotten the shilling you swindled me out of last time.’

‘And I haven’t forgotten what it’s like to taste the waters of the Lethe. Two years have I spent drenched and disdained.’

‘How’s Hades?’

‘I wouldn’t know. I’m not exactly employee-of-the-month material since the mortal ducked me.’

‘How come you’re still wet?’

‘Hades’ idea of a joke.’

‘He’s certainly no god of wit,’ I replied sympathetically. The ferryman looked down at the ground miserably. ‘Listen: can I buy you a drink?’

‘Goo on, then,’ said Charon.

When we left the Pub of the Dead there was an orange glow in the gloom. At first I feared for the Merlin, but in fact it was Charon’s rowboat that was ablaze.

‘What have you done, lads?’ I asked.

Jack, idly fussing Genevieve on the towpath, looked up at us in surprise. ‘We didn’t want that one racing off to the Beehive to tell tales.‘

‘Is the Merlin going to be all right?’ I asked, for the vessels were quite close together.

‘Ar,’ said Chimdy, ‘There’s no wind. I don’t think there ever is in this place.’ What’s up with him?’

Something in Charon had changed at that point. The dour, down-at-heel, drenched-to-the-skin delivery boy with whom I’d been swapping tales of watery adventures only minutes before was in a superhuman rage, smashing his oar against the floor and screaming incoherently until words formed from the cries like primitive organisms emerging from the primeval soup.

‘Monsters!’ cried he, his oar partially snapped and flailing in the air, ‘You naughty bloody monsters!’

‘Monsters!’ cried he, his oar partially snapped and flailing in the air, ‘You naughty bloody monsters! My boat! My livelihood! Hades is going to bloody kill me!’

‘Take it easy, Charon,’ said I, still keeping an eye out on the Merlin, which ‘Handsome’ Jonny Briggs had to have back — in one piece — at Crown Works by Sunday night at the latest. ‘It’s only a rowboat. It shouldn’t be too hard to find you another.’

‘That’s been my boat since the beginning, long before the time of the mortals.’

‘In which case, it might not be a bad idea to bring yourself up to date, a bit. It’s a modern world, Charon.’

‘This is the Land of the Dead! There’s nothing modern about it!’

He had a point. I looked to the lads for ideas.

‘Thing is, mate,’ said Chimdy, eventually, ‘How long does it take you to bring a single soul down here on that? Get yourself something motorized, with a bigger capacity, maybe, and you could save yourself a ruck of time.’

‘What are you talking about? I’ve got nothing on my hands but time,’ answered the Ferryman.

‘But you could be enjoying yourself…’

‘I enjoy my work.’

‘Well of course,’ said Chimdy, ‘I mean: who wouldn’t? But there’s more to… life.’

There was an uncomfortable silence. Cerberus barked a suspenseful diminished triad.

‘See you, then,’ I said to Charon, and we headed to the Merlin

We fed the past to Cerberus and began sharing the flagon of ale. Charon’s rage had subsided, and he moped around on the towpath; this was a distraction to conversation and, feeling rather guilty at the destruction of his vessel, and sorry for his literal and metaphorical drippiness, we eventually invited him aboard.

And then, of course, he wouldn’t leave.

We offered him beer money to go back into the Pub of the Dead, threw coal at him, and even threatened to throw him in the water again, but he stood his ground, and we had not left enough time for battle, and so we reluctantly took him with us back up Dudley No.1 to the Beehive, half an hour before closing time.

As soon as we got to the junction, Charon jumped ship and into the public bar of the Beehive. We braced ourselves for battle. Seconds passed that felt like minutes. Minutes passed that felt like hours. And then an hour had passed. Clearly, there was a lock-in.

At 12.30, I left Jack and Chimdy and headed to the windows to see what I could find out. The notes of a lyre, and the unmistakeable voice of Fred Carp could be heard above boisterous chatter.

Well some call him Bacchus and some Liber Pater
The infallible beer and whisky locator
The subject of statues and poems and myths
Now he lies on the floor in a pool of his piss

Refrain:
Because no-one outdrinks Natty Painter
Be they gods or ordinary men
And if it’s true Dionysus was born twice before
Then he’ll need to be reborn again.

Oh, no-one outdrinks Natty Painter,
They always end up on the floor,
And if drinking’s the mark of a man (and it is)
Then we’ll call this poor god Pseudanor!

I was still standing at the window when the bolt was thrown and the revellers emerged, arms around shoulders or punching the air, laughing and shouting and emitting hiccoughs or discrete quantities of vomit. “Handsome” Jonny Briggs, of golden hair and full lips, was carrying one end of Dionysus, while two adoring serving wenches took the feet. Hades was merry but in control, and looked at me curiously. ‘Where’s my dog?’ he said neutrally.

‘Let’s settle this once and for all.’

‘He’s my dog now.’

‘So you keep saying,’ said Hades, ‘But how do you know what he wants?’

I considered the question. ‘Let’s settle this once and for all.’

We stood apart, Hades on the towpath and near the back gate of the Beehive, where Bill the landlord was stacking the innumerable barrels that Natty and Dionysus had emptied. Chimdy passed Cerberus (whose toothache was now completely cured) to Jack, who set him on the ground.

‘Come on, boy!’ I called, slapping my thighs invitingly.

‘Attend me!’ commanded Hades.

‘Come on, Cerberus! Good boy!’

‘Approach, hound!’

Unsure, Cerberus walked towards us, each head switching its gaze between the two of us. The crowd was silent but for some dry retching from Jim Painter, whose capacity did not match that of his kin.

‘Come on, boy!’ I called. ‘Scratchings! Scratchings!’

‘Come hither, accursèd beast or thou shalt know my wrath!`

Cerberus stopped at the fork in his invisible road, some six yards from each of us. Hades’ threats continued, but I just gave a quick whistle and slapped my thighs again.

Cerberus wagged his tale and bounded towards me, to cheers from the Merlinauts.

‘See you, then,’ I said, and headed off to the Merlin with the rest of the crew. As we passed by the pub up the old main line to Aston, we heard Hades demanding a ride from his psychopomp, and snivelling excuses and apologies from Charon.

All in all, a decent weekend away, though Wolves lost 2-1 to goals from Astley and Dix and the beer in the Aston Tavern wasn’t as good as usual. We headed back as dusk’s rosy fingers caressed the clouds, and got the Merlin and Genevieve back safe and sound.