‘On your marks…,’

I looked over at Jack Dudley, bobbing on his toes with the adrenaline, and then around at the rest of the competitors. The size of some of these steelworkers…; the nets looked like tea-strainers in their hands.

‘Get set…’

Jack was bursting, pounds of linear force held back by sheer will.

‘Hunt!’ shouted Larasyov finally, and off we all skipped into the bright spring day, amid the cherry blossom and birdsong of Barrow-in-Furness.

□ □ □ □ □

We’d got word of the butterfly hunt the previous Saturday, when a novel set of white whiskers raised eyebrows at the Fox an hour before kick-off. Barrow were visiting that day, and the mysterious foreign gentleman seemed unusually keen for as many Wulfrunians as possible to visit Holker Street the following week, indulging us with drinks, Woodbines and flattery.

‘Of course, it’s only lattle grund, not a-like your own,’ he said, with a self-deprecating smile, ‘but I’ve no doubt you’ll be entertained and…, accomodated….’

‘We always are,” said Chippy Fowler, picking a flake of tobacco from his teeth, ‘for, in case you haven’t heard….’ A three-octave rising piano arpeggio wafted into earshot from the lounge, and in his characteristic, heavily-vibratoed alto, Chippy began singing

At this point, Maude Baker, the merry widow that no snug could ever hope to contain, entered stage left, parting the sea of football enthusiasts with partnerless pirouettes until Nobby Clarke took her raised hand and swept her across the sawdust floor. Even beneath her heavy rouge, a blush of port and youth shone through her cheeks. Larasyov tapped his feet and nodded to the second verse:

Once this musical interlude had finished, and, at the landlord’s stern instruction, Nobby Clarke had whisked Maude back off to the snug, Larasyov headed to the bar to shout up another round. ‘What d’yer make of him?’ asked Jack, once he was out of earshot.

‘He’s sellin’ something,’ I said, raising a match to my Senior Service, ‘but as long as he’s buying, I suppose it’s all right.’

Larasyov returned, and handed out our drinks with a rather more businesslike air. He checked his pocket watch again. ‘We’re having a butterfly hunt before the game next Saturday, I don’t know if you’d be interested…?’

‘A butterfly hunt?’

‘Precisely. It’s a very popular pastime up in Lancashire, and we….’

‘Oh, we’ll be there!’ blurted Jack, ‘What time does it start?’

‘You are a lepidopterist, my friend?’

A stony, perhaps even resentful silence fell upon the table. Larasyov gave an open gesture with both hands. ‘Noon. Get there punctually if you want a good net.’

‘I’ve got me own,’ said Jack proudly. Larasyov checked his watch again, stood, donned his top hat, excused himself with a bow and a courteous smile and left, probably hoping to make the Chequer Ball and the Feathers before kick-off.

Within a few seconds ‘Gaps’ Mayhew of Brierley Hill approached our table. ‘You know that chap, Gonby?’ he asked.

‘Some bloke from Barrow,’ I shrugged, ‘Friendly enough.’ I showed him my half-drunk pint of Butler’s by way of illustration.

‘He was in the works yesterday,’ said Gaps, ‘Ordering some great bespoke fishbowl thing.’

‘So?’

‘Reg Cairns givin’ us a hard time about it. Quick turnaround – needs it for Monday. Muster cost ‘im.’

□ □ □ □ □

There was a good turnout at the starting line that Saturday; not only did the Barrovians appear to enjoy a good butterfly hunt, but Larasyov had managed to get the word out around the Black Country. Just before one, pushing through the throngs of men and nets, Pete Pettigrew of Tipton sidled up to me. “Y’am all roit, Gonby?” he said, tucking his net and jam jar under his armpit to light a Capstan Full Strength.

‘All right, Pete. What’s up?’

‘You know that chap?’ he asked, raising his broken nose towards the gaunt figure of Larasyov, kitted out today in deerstalker, tweeds and a churchwarden pipe.

‘Met him on Saturday at the Fox,’ I said, ‘Seems all right.’

At this, Pettigrew smiled a knowing smile. ‘Bought yow a point, did he?’

‘He did, ar. What have you got against him?’

‘Nothing. He’s a bit fastidious about his machining, mind you. Bin givin’ Archie Twist hell all week about my lathe work.’

‘A customer of yours, is he?’

The filterless fag wagged up and down between Pete’s lips as he answered, ‘One-off.’

‘Car see why he was using your place,’ I said, ‘when there are tooling shops all over Barrow.’

‘It was in aluminium, Gonby,’ said Pete, ‘It’s all steel round here.’

You could tell at a glance the really keen hunters: a variety of high-tech nets, some with hinged jaws, others two or three feet deep in order to catch the insects securely, were visible amongst standard-issue bamboo- and rattan-shafted numbers and even some home-made articles fashioned with onion bags. But, whether ardent professionals or giddy amateurs, whether effeminate librarians or hulking hull-riveters, as soon as Larasyov gave the order to hunt, all pranced in dainty, elegant movements in search of brimstones, speckled woods and commas. I’d taken one of Larasyov’s nets, but moved at a more leisurely speed, keeping Jack Dudley company as much as anything else.

Time flew like the monarch flies to Mexico.

Eventually, though, I had to pick up my speed, as Jack got more and more into the hunt. I’d forgotten just what an obsessive he could be. He skipped along with dizzying twists, swatting at the air with deft flicks of the wrist, not even stopping for cigarette breaks. Up and down terraced streets, through the town centre, along the docks and up the trees of public parks, he hunted single-mindedly and bagged incessantly. Time flew like a Monarch flies to Mexico, and before I knew it, he had led me clean out of the town, and we were standing atop a slag heap overlooking the Walney Channel. I helped him empty his catch into the jam jar with holes carefully poked in the top, adding the half-dozen small whites that I’d procured, and we headed down.

At the bottom, three uniformed schoolchildren in their early teens were waiting for us. ‘Dr. L says you should meet him at the Harbour Hotel, on the Strand,’ said the tallest one, a freckly blond thing with rotten teeth.

‘Who the hell is Dr. L?’

‘Funny neem. Cant say it.’

‘The one that called the ‘unt,’ said the littlest urchin.

□ □ □ □ □

‘Gentlemen! Thank you for coming. I was beginning to think I’d have to track you down at the football ground….’

‘Jack’s very keen,’ I said, eyeing the bar thirstily.

‘I knew it! I could see it in his eyes as soon as I mentioned butterflies in the… in that pub in…’

‘The Fox.’

‘The Fox, yes. Charming place. I hope you don’t find this particular hostelry unwelcoming…?’

‘What are you having?’ I asked.

‘Nothing for me thank you. Please meet me on the roof. Nancy will show you to the stairs once you’ve been served. And bring that excellent collection of specimens you have there, ahm, Jack!’

‘Will do,’ said Jack, glowing from the hunt and presumably as thirsty as I was.

‘Gaps’ Mayhew was among a throng on the roof. ‘Gonby,’ he called urgently, as we headed out of the stairwell door, ‘Over here!’

‘What’s up Gaps?’ I asked.

‘He’s got the bowl with him!’

‘What bowl?’

‘The glassware he had us mek for ‘im. He’s putting all the butterflies in it.’

‘I thought it was a contest!’ said Jack, shocked…

‘I thought it was a contest!’ said Jack, shocked, “How can he tell who caught what?’

We nudged our way through the crowd towards the table where Larasyov stood. Butterflies filled the large bowl, whose principal aperture (there were other, small ones around the opposite side) appeared to be sealed with a complex aluminium fitting. It wouldn’t be long before I understood why he’d spurned the weight of Barrow steel.

‘Your butterflies please, Jack,’ called the Doctor, with a quite wild look in his eyes now. ‘Now, Jack.’

‘But I thought it was a contest!’ cried Jack.

‘Now!’

I didn’t like the way he raised his voice, but before I could interject he had snatched the jam jar from Jack Dudley’s hand and was pouring the insects into the bowl.

‘Stop it!’ cried Jack, ‘It’s cruel! There’s too many in there!’

‘Nonsense!’ shouted Larasyov, before raising the bowl to his head, twisting the complex aluminium fitting, placing his head inside, and then tightening what presumably was some kind of seal. ‘Now, behold!’ he cried, arms outstretched, as the butterflies fluttered madly before his face.

Nothing happened. Was it meant to? Was this a performance of some kind? Did the insects carry some inherent danger he was braving?

‘He does this every spring.’

‘Barmpot thought he was gunner fly!’ said Pete Pettigrew. When the consequent laughter had died down, we could hear that the Doctor was coughing, and possibly choking; it seemed some lepidoptera had entered his mouth. Pettigrew was first to the scene, but Larasyov’s frantic, panicked movement made it impossible for him to open the valve. Jack and I grabbed him by the arms in order to help, but soon Larasyov was smacking his head against the floor to try to smash the device. In this he was eventually successful, though the dozen or so goes it took to break the glass gave Gaps Mayhew some consolation. Shaken and crestfallen, Larasyov sat against a chimney stack and refused any help as we filed downstairs in bewildered silence. On the way out, I ordered him a brandy and asked Nancy to take it up to him.

‘Quite an ordeal he put himself through,’ I said, handing over two tanners, ‘I’d be surprised if he were ever the same again.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ she said flatly, ‘He does this every spring.’

And so we headed out into the sunshine towards Holker Street, for a tighter and more entertaining game than the previous week’s three-nil drubbing. Bottom of the table 2 Top of the table 2 it finished, and a victory for Rochdale meant by five o’clock we were clinging to 1^st place only by goal average. I did wonder, briefly, whether Larasyov would still be clinging to his head, but we decided to steer clear of the Harbour Hotel and his eccentric inventions, heading instead for the Old House at Home, where Jack caught a mouse with his butterfly net, earning him a free pint from Les the landlord.