“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.