{"id":161,"date":"2019-04-25T04:06:38","date_gmt":"2019-04-25T04:06:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/gonbys.com\/?p=161"},"modified":"2019-04-25T04:06:38","modified_gmt":"2019-04-25T04:06:38","slug":"watford-1912","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/?p=161","title":{"rendered":"Watford, 1912"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Watford: a name to strike indifference into the hearts of Wolves supporters \u2013 at least until 7 April 2019. Yet it wasn\u2019t always thus: there was a time when it provoked sheer ignorance. Our first meeting came in the FA Cup in 1912, and I remember, as the Loyal and Distinguished Pedallers gathered outside the Molineux Hotel before embarking on our journey to their Cassio Road ground, a number of cyclists wondering whether to turn left or right on Waterloo Road Eli Aldridge led the way on his spanking Sunbeam, and we were soon finding our voices in the cold winter air.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Whenever I was out\nwith the Pedallers, I felt a wistfulness on singing that second\nverse, and the line \u201cAway from the women who love them…\u201d. I\nwould always wonder if anybody actually loved me, in Whitmore Reans\nor elsewhere, and think of someone in my secret admiration, imagine\nthem sending me off to West Brom, Derby or Notts with a kiss and a\nsilent vow that she would wait for me, a tender parting priming\njoyous return. My mom had waved me off on the first couple of trips\nbut I\u2019d asked her not to do that anymore.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It took a while to get going, past coal carts and omnibuses through the Black Country and Brum, but once we were out into the leafy south of Solihull, chilled wind blowing at our faces (caps secreted to the inside pockets of overcoats) it felt good to be alive, but for the bad chest I\u2019d picked up the previous week. We stopped in Stratford-upon-Avon just as an ale-house was opening, warmed ourselves by a fire and spoke of our expectations for the game. Knowing nothing of the opposition, most expected a win. \u201cHalligan for a hat-trick,\u201d Amos Graves pronounced confidently, after his first deep visit to the foam, \u201cAnd Peers won\u2019t let a single one past.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

A huddle of Cowsheders including Arnold \u201cHealthy\u201d Johns and Eric Broad were less optimistic, arguing that Jack Addenbrooke had taken the club as far as he could. Amos, a large man, was disparaging of such attitudes; a heated debate ensued and then, being reminded but once of the Loyal and Distinguished Pedallers\u2019 moral code, both parties shook hands sincerely before our journey to Hertfordshire resumed, through a placid if rather stark landscape, the cawing of crows the only accompaniment to our songs and chatter. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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Eli Aldridge’s brand-new Sunbeam was the envy of the LADP<\/figcaption><\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n

When the clear skies started to darken, we stopped in a village south of Banbury called King\u2019s Sutton, arranged things with a farmer, pitched our tents in his field and headed to the local, the White Horse. The ale there was as deep and malty as anything I\u2019d ever tried, and the fire roared. A balladeer sang in the corner over a guitar.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

but the Pedallers soon drowned him out. After exchanging a few pleasantries with the locals, talk switched to what people had been up to over the Christmas period and some technical questions (having already drawn envious glances, Jeb Grand\u2019s new bicycle clips now occasioned fervent interrogation), before inevitably arriving at the next day\u2019s game. Amos Graves was even more bullish than he\u2019d been in Stratford, predicting a double hat-trick for Halligan and Peers to score first.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cY\u2019am never\nroit, Amos,\u201d said Eric Broad, his scratchy alto reaching out over\nthe deep chatter, \u201cIf yow car see Jack Addenbrooke\u2019s toim has\ncome, yow now nuthin\u2019 about football.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHe took us to Crystal Palace three years ago,\u201d boomed Amos, his tenacious baritone hushing the public bar completely, \u201cAnd he\u2019ll teck us there this year, if people will just get behoind him!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019m behoind\nhim,\u201d countered Arnold Johns, pushing ahead of Eric and well into\nGraves\u2019 personal space, \u201cBut we\u2019m behoind the Villa, too. And\nBury! If we manage to beat this Watley lot…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWatford.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhatever they\u2019m called, please God we don\u2019t meet Stafford Road in the next round, for I swear they\u2019d probably beat us!\u201d Boos and whistles rang out at the invocation of our rivals.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBleeding Christ\non a stick!\u201d boomed Amos, \u201cI didn\u2019t talk come all this way to\ntalk about that God-forsaken lot!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Having just brought another jug of chestnut-coloured ale up from the cellar, the Landlord silenced the room with an authoritative bass, \u201cGentlemen! I shall not bear the Lord\u2019s name be used in vain in my house! My custom is to give but one warning!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMiss,\u201d I said, quietly, \u201cWill you not speak to me? My name is Gonby, and I am from Wolverhampton, Staffordshire.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

My last fag had\nirritated my chest a bit and, setting down my pint on the stone\nmantel, I headed outside to relieve myself in the gutter. Upon doing\nso I looked up to see a pretty maid across the street; having\nevidently been alerted by my desperate hawking, she was looking\nstraight at me, and it felt as though I could wait a lifetime for her\ncountenance to break into a smile. Instead, however, she turned away\nand hastened on her journey. I was dazed for a few seconds but\neventually came to life and ran up the hill after her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cExcuse me,\u201d I\ncalled, \u201cMiss! My lady!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She would not turn\naround. I sprinted now to get twenty yards ahead and turned to see\nthat face once more, glowing in the moonlight. But the head I adored\nsoon bowed and I was lost again. \u201cMiss,\u201d I said, quietly, for we\nwere now some distance from the rabble in the pub, \u201cWill you not\nspeak to me? My name is Gonby, and I am from Wolverhampton,\nStaffordshire.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She opened her lips,\nand it was as though all the birds of the fields had mistaken\nmoonlight for dawn, \u201cI am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir,\u201d\nshe said, in sweet country tones that suggested innocence and good,\nsimple breeding. But the answer was one of manners rather than\nsincerity, and I was bruised again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBut what\nacquaintance is this?\u201d I asked, \u201cthat knows but one direction? \nSince I saw you, knowing you has been my life\u2019s breath, yet you\nwould have me only exhale.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure><\/div>\n\n\n\n

She blushed deeply,\nand then turned around. At the bottom of the hill the landlord of\nthe White Horse was heaving Amos Graves out of the door, to loud\nshouts of approbation and censure from the rest of his customers. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBugger your sweet\nJehovah!\u201d shouted Amos at the frosted glass, \u201cAnd bugger his holy\nghost!\u201d At that he set forth towards us \u2013 or towards me, as\nwhen I turned around from the spectacle the girl was no longer to be\nseen. I dashed about a little, looking for a sign of her in the\ndark, but she was gone.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAny pubs up here,\nGonby?\u201d asked Amos as he reached the top.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo,\u201d I said\nglumly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s the\nmatter?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA maiden,\u201d I\nreplied. It didn\u2019t seem to capture the enormity of what had\ntranspired.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAbout time, too,\u201d\nsaid Amos, a father of seven, and we headed off to our campsite, each\ndisconsolate for his own reason.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After a sleepless night I arose to dense, cloudy skies at the sound of the first sparrow and headed to the farmer\u2019s dwelling. Purchasing some leaves of letter paper and a pencil from the lady of the house I headed out to the square to dedicate myself to a portrait of the pretty maid by which I could enlist the help of the villagefolk in identifying her. The White Horse had opened by the time I\u2019d finished, and I began my enquiries there. The landlord didn\u2019t know her but suggested I try at the small store two doors down; those questions, too, yielded no answers. I stopped strangers to no avail, and a policeman with an unsightly moustache had questions of his own regarding a man of heft with a Godless tongue. Then I saw Jeb Grand.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWe\u2019m about to\nhead out, Gonby,\u201d he said. \u201cAmos has packed your tent away.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

And then I said the\nwords I had once thought I should never say: \u201cI don\u2019t think I\ncan make it to today\u2019s game.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat yow on\nabout?\u201d asked Jeb.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cJust leave my\ntent in the field, Jeb. I\u2019ll kip there again tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cGonby, we am the Loyal and Distinguished Pedallers. Emphasis on \u2018Loyal\u2019, if you take my meaning\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know, Jeb; I\nknow. Amos will understand.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Healthy shook his head and followed Amos down the hill, and my heart hurt to see them leave, as if they took with them all of my past days.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In fact Amos did not understand, and within ten minutes his red face was bouncing up the square like a bobbing apple, alongside Healthy Johns, their differences regarding the management style of Jack Addenbrooke resolved, forgotten, or put to one side while the Gonby issue was addressed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s not how we\ndo things, Gonby \u2013 just quitting like this.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI have to find\nthis woman, Amos.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou have to ride with the Pedallers,\u201d countered Johns, \u201cThat\u2019s a duty as well as a privilege.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I didn\u2019t like\nHealthy\u2019s tone, and navigated it quickly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow did you meet\nyour wife, Amos?\u201d I asked, offering each a Craven \u2018A\u2019.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There followed a\ndull and rather complicated story involving a fishmonger\u2019s on\nHorseley Fields and some kind of wager with a tinker passing through\nEttingshall. Healthy Johns\u2019 eyes soon glazed over, and I had to\nfight the urge to sit down in the gutter while I listened. But the\ntactic had its desired effect: the retelling softened the old man\u2019s\nheart so that, having completed his tale, he looked into my eyes and\nsaid, \u201cAnd I can see you am resolved to follow the heart\u2019s path\nthis weekend. We shall rejoin you here tomorrow morning.\u201d Healthy\nshook his head and followed Amos down the hill, and my heart hurt to\nsee them leave, as if they took with them all of my past days.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I knew I had to make\nthe most of the time I had stolen.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

After another hour stopping strangers in the street, I began knocking on random doors north of where I had last seen her. Responses to my sketch were varied, with one old man suggesting the name of Mr. Asquith\u2019s late wife and another likening it to Emmeline Pankhurst. One old chap in a crumbling cottage thought it was supposed to be Queen Victoria and a woman three doors down from him suggested Prince Albert. An old hag who couldn\u2019t tell me the name confidently predicted that if I were to ever cross such a woman those I loved the most in the world would all disappear. I was unsure whether to doubt my own artistic abilities or the sanity of King\u2019s Sutton\u2019s residents when suddenly I saw my model in absentia depart from the gate to a smallholding at the very top of the street; I darted up and caught up with her by a large dog turd at the limits to the village.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“Have you heard said, sir, that football is like a religion?” “Of course,” I replied, “Jack Dudley invented that saying.”<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy lady! I have\nfound you!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSir, I am not\nyour lady.\u201d At this, all the sadness of the world fell upon my\nshoulders. I remembered it was winter and cruel cold bit at my\nheart.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cYou belong to\nanother, madam?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnother man, no,\u201d\nshe said. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

My eyes widened. \n\u201cAnother woman?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cAnother team,\nsir.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There passed five\nseconds of silence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA team of men,\nm\u2019lady, or a team of women?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She shot me an angry\nlook, but seeing my genuine confusion took pity. \u201cHave you heard\nsaid, sir, that football is like a religion?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d I\nreplied, \u201cJack Dudley invented that saying.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cDo you abide by\nit?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I gave the question some thought. \u201cJack Dudley says a lot of things when he\u2019s drunk,\u201d I replied, scratching my unshaven cheek, \u201cI suppose that has more sense to it than some of his claptrap.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy late father,\nGod bless his soul, was from Staffordshire, too. The way you speak\nrecalls him strongly to me,\u201d she smiled wistfully at this, and my\nheart leapt, albeit briefly, \u201cBut he brought me up to support\nanother team, and I would expect my husband to follow it too, just as\nan Anglican might take full communion were he to fall in love with a\nCatholic\u2026.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

It was the first\ntime a woman had ever spoken directly of love to me and it made me\nfeverish. Was this it? Was my life taking a course at this moment\nthat would change it forever? As if sensing my excitement and\nseizing the initiative she looked into my eyes and I felt I was under\nher total enchantment. At that moment anything seemed like nothing,\nif it would make her happy, make her mine\u2026.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFollow the\nBaggies, you mean?\u201d I blurted out, \u201cSure! No problem!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She shook her head. \nWhat a beautiful head it was: the slightly upturned nose, the noble\nsadness to the mouth and eyes, the way the single dark ringlet fell\nupon it when it looked downwards. Oh to make it happy! Could any\nsacrifice be too great? \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy father was a\nrailway engineer,\u201d she began. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This was not\npromising.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Her words proceeded,\nvia a clumping, downhill path, to a conclusion I could not bear to\nhear. Cruel fate, they call it. I felt the tragic descent as if it\nwere footsteps through my being: first the mind, stunned by its own\nreason; then the heart; now the lower intestines urgently responding;\nnow the knees, weak, longing to go but rooted. \n<\/p>\n\n\n\n

“My father was a railway engineer,” she began. This was not promising.<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI would bring you\nhappiness, Mr. Gonby; and I would bear you children. I would be as\nfaithful and true a wife as ever there has been. I would do all this\nand more for you, and you would have to do but one thing…\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cSorry, Bab,\u201d I\nsaid, \u201cthat\u2019s never going to happen. For\u2026<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

So impassioned was my singing of the Hymn To Partiality and Professionalism (\u201cEvery Farthing In the Penny\u201d) that I had closed my eyes for the refrain, and when I opened them, not only had she gone, but Constable Dawes had appeared, his jowly face prickled from a morning shave (sadly he had once again missed that bit above the lip). \u201cWhat\u2019s all this racket at half past two in the afternoon?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhere did the\nlady go?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI saw no lady \u2013\njust a fool baritone with no respect for the peace. Where are the\nothers in your confederacy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWatford, by now,\u201d\nI said, sadly, the impact of my choices finally dawning on me. \u201cHow\ndoting I have been!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cA woman, was it?\u201d\nhe asked sympathetically. I nodded my head and he looked at me\nintently before checking his pocket watch. \u201cCome on,\u201d he said\nkindly, \u201cTake a drink with me for the heartache.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

: : : : :<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I awoke the next day\nwith a hammering head, huddled beneath my blanket and unpitched tent.\n I packed these away and headed to the farmhouse to see if they would\ngive me some sustenance, but they were out \u2013 presumably at church. \nI went back to my field, sat and contemplated my life in the cruel\nway a hungover person will do if left in solitude, but it wasn\u2019t\ntoo long before I heard singing coming from the wooded copse through\nwhich the road to Watford ran.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n\n

I arose and headed to the hedgerow to greet them, but doing so could not believe my eyes. One thousand wheels were turning, but there were no men atop the well-oiled machines. I watched in amazement as the riderless cycles whizzed past me, led by Eli Aldridge’s brand-new Sunbeam. Confused and panicked, I put my bag onto my back and peddled after them; on reaching them I could make out the different voices: Amos Graves\u2019 baritone, Eric Broad\u2019s scratchy alto\u2026, the tuneless croak of Jeb Grand. On they went, not stopping for drinks, all the way back to Solihull, from which point the occasional cycle would break off on a different route north; this continued all through the Black Country, and by the time I reached the Molineux Hotel there was nobody with me. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

No news ever emerged as to what had happened to them; Jack Dudley, who’d travelled to the game with the Flying Squadron<\/a> assured me he\u2019d spoken to Amos Graves and Eli Aldridge at the Cassio Road ground. I thought of the old lady who\u2019d warned me that those I most loved would disappear if I did not honour the wishes of the woman in my portrait — had I caused their disappearance? Was this impossible woman a woman at all, or some spectral apparition that had brought evil upon me? I feared that I might never enjoy the Wolves with the feelings of guilt and loss I now carried.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Such fears turned out to be groundless. I was as pleased as anyone when we won the replay 10-0 later that month, and by the spring I was cycling to away games with the Honorable and Worthy Pedallers, a splinter group formed some years before by cyclists intolerant to Amos Graves’ taste in profanities.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\"\"<\/figure><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

No man can stop the Loyal and Distinguished Pedallers. But what of fair Oxfordshire maidens? What of the ‘Impossible Woman’?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":172,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[45,48,51,57,67,86,94,114,122],"class_list":["post-161","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-cycling","tag-fa-cup","tag-football","tag-humour","tag-literature","tag-premier-league","tag-soccer","tag-watford","tag-wolves"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/161","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=161"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/161\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=161"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=161"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/gonbys.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=161"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}