For the full story of how Gonby and Dudley became stranded in Leeds, see Leeds City, 1919.

It was the Monday morning before I ran into the Dunstall Dada again. Matthieu Noir (a.k.a. Matty Black) was at the baker’s when I went in to pick up a loaf. He looked extremely tired.

‘Ah’m sleeping on ze streets, actuellement,’ he said. ‘Capitalism has crushed me.’

This line of argument was too facile to even engage with, so rather than pointing out that capitalism had in no way forced him to disassemble and give away the vehicle which we had both been relying on to get back to our comfortable homes in Wolverhampton, I asked what he knew about the final destination of the parts he’d given away in the Market Square that Saturday.

‘Ze artistic act was ze important sing,’ he said wearily. ‘I do not care about any bourgeouis narrative sat follows it.’

‘You’ve not seen any of the parts about?’

‘Aucune idée. And don’t ask anybody else in ze Dada because zey have no clue eazer.’

I left it there, picked up my bloomer and headed to a nearby newsagent’s for some Woodbines and a Herald. The sun was shining, though more than a slight tinge of autumn was in the air as I strolled back to Elland Road.

Herbert Chapman was allowing Jack and me to stay in a janitor’s closet in the West Stand in exchange for any information we could obtain about the components of the Dada’s random charabanc. I had come up with some leads the day before, and Jack had actually found two spark plugs discarded on Great George Street, but having no float to obtain the parts ourselves, and no way to contact the Chairman, things were very slow. The Herald suggested an end to the national rail strike was not in sight, and the unthinkable idea of missing a home game that Saturday grew more real with every minute.

Chapman’s deputy, Joseph Connor, arrived to lead a training session at ten o’clock. I asked him where I could find the boss.

‘I shall be seeing him leeter,’ said Connor quietly, ‘Let me know what you know and I’ll pass the message along.’

This sounded strange. ‘It’s rather complicated…’

‘Do I look stupid? Do you think I cannot grasp complicated matters?’ he checked his tone, ‘I’ll pass it on, don’t you worry.’

‘It’s complicated,’ I repeated, ‘I’ll need to write it down.’

‘You do that,’ said Connor, heading for the dressing room. ‘I’ll pick it up after training.’

I quickly penned a decoy note to leave with Jack. ‘If he wants the spark plugs, Jack, let him have them. We need something more substantial, quickly, and I get the feeling Mr. Connor is not going to help.’

Borrowing one of the player’s bicycles, I headed out on a tour of scrap yards and workshops. I entered Bostock and Baker just as Dave Begley (alias Klaus Weiss of Werd, Zurich) was leaving, steering wheel in hand and still wearing the urine-soaked antlers he had arrived in.

‘What on earth are you doing with that, Dave?’ I asked.

He looked nervous. ‘Sculpture,’ he said, finally.

‘Sculpture?’

‘Yes. Assembling…,’ he was mumbling now, ‘some… random objects… scrap, etc… representational form. Sculpture.’

I was suspicious. Not only was that no random steering wheel, but the concept sounded far too ordered, too cubist for the Dunstall Dada.

‘Can I help you?’ asked the mechanic, blackened by grease as he impaled a note on his desk.

‘A question, really,’ I said, still watching Dave Begley’s progress down the street.

‘Fire away.’

‘If I was trying to reassemble a vehicle that had been broken up for parts, what should I start with?’

The concept sounded far too cubist for the Dunstall Dada.

‘The engine block, I should say. Unless…’

‘Unless what?’

‘If the vehicle in question were unusual – say a particularly… large?… vehicle. Then you might want to get hold of the chassis first.’

‘I see. And would you happen to have… a particularly… large?… chassis of any kind?’

‘I don’t know why you’re whispering, mate. The world and his Auntie Flo knows about the big charabanc that clot broke up on Saturday. It’s the scandal of the West Riding at the minute.’

‘Fair enough. Do you know where the chassis is?’

‘Aye, it’s out back. That smelly chappie is coming back for it this afternoon.’

‘How on earth did he pay for it?’

‘On account. A Mr. Cripps, I believe.’

I met Jack Dudley in the Malt Shovel at one. He had successfully passed the decoy note to Connor, but we were unsure as to our next move. We couldn’t even be sure that Connor was working against Chapman; if it turned out that he wasn’t, the false information we had provided might well see us evicted from the janitor’s cupboard.

George Cripps’ involvement was, in contrast, definitely nefarious. Chapman’s disgruntled former assistant, paid off to keep quiet about illegal payments to players, shared a lawyer with the very player who was keeping anything but quiet on the matter. What he could possibly want with a charabanc, while he was busy making enemies throughout Leeds, was a complete mystery.

‘What if he doesn’t want a charabanc?’

‘What do you mean,’ said Jack, passing me a Senior Service.

‘What if he just doesn’t want Chapman to build one?’

‘Then why buy the steering wheel? It would be enough to hold the chassis to ransom.’

At this point a fight broke out in the public bar and so we hurried down our pints and retired to the Three Legs. Herbert Chapman was enjoying a cigar at a table in the window.

‘Bloody Cripps,’ he said, when I told him. ‘He won’t get away with this!’

‘Joseph Connor was asking for information earlier,’ I said.

‘I’ll bet,’ said Chapman. He stared out the window for a moment. ‘He could be useful, to tell you the truth. Steer him towards the body parts, transmission if you have to, but do not tip him off about the engine.’

‘But he’ll find it himself, sooner or later. We need to buy it.’

‘Just keep enquiring. I’ll deal with the financial side.’

Chapman departed for a meeting shortly afterwards, and left us two bob. When I got back from the bar, Jack was looking miserable.

‘I just want to get back,’ he said. ‘I can’t live like this.’

‘I know,’ I said.

‘I’ve got rent due soon,’ he continued, ‘And then there’s Margaret…’

‘We do not cry for Mummy; we make Mummy cry for us!’

I shuddered, and not just at the invocation. A sudden draft had entered the public bar, along with a handbrake and the Dunstall Dada.

‘So zere we have it!’ said Matthieu Noir, ‘Ze forces of reactionary philistinism and zere passetic non-French cigarettes!’

‘What on earth is the matter with you?’

‘Bostock told me everything! Your plans to build ze charabanc and make it less random! Zis cannot happen!’

‘We just want to get home, Matty!’

‘Do not stain the conversation with zat bourgeouis notion, Gonby! We do not cry for Mummy; we make Mummy cry for us!’

‘You want a game of doms?’

‘… maybe?’

‘Ask if they’ve got any behind the bar. And mine’s a pint.’

‘Mine too,’ said Jack, moving the table away from the window to better accommodate the game.

Dic-Dat aside, the Dada were not strong domino players, but neither were they weak drinkers. Numerous rounds failed to loosen their tongues vis-à-vis the charabanc. After about an hour, a shadowy figure entered the Three Legs, and as one the Dada straightened their backs.

‘Taking a short break, boys?’

Matthieu Noir looked down at the table. ‘Just a short one, Mr Cripps.’

‘Good. Good. Who are your friends?’

‘I am Gonby, from Wolverhampton, Staffs. And this is Jack Dudley.’

‘Oh, I’ve heard about you two,’ said Cripps, distantly.

‘All good, I hope.’

‘Not really. Sort of pathetic, really. “Meddling in Leeds City affairs when they’re not in any way connected to the club,” “Asking impertinent questions.” “Enquiring about automobile parts they have no use for”, that sort of thing, you know…. ’

‘And what is your connection to Leeds City at the moment, Mr Cripps?’

‘Ah’m afraid ah cannot tell you that, Mr Gonbeh. That is between me and the relevent parties?’

‘Well, good luck finding an engine!’ blurted Jack.

□ □ □ □ □

‘That was not especially clever, Jack,’ I said to him as we hit the streets again, ‘I’m fairly sure Mr Chapman wished to keep his strategy secret.’

‘I know, Gonby,’ said Jack, ‘but that Cripps fellow didn’t half wind me up. Who does he think he is?’

‘Well, he thinks he’s the boss of the Dada, for starters. And with good reason. We know he received a fairly generous settlement from Leeds City F.C., and that he shares a lawyer with this Coleman chap that’s kicked up such a stink.’

‘Sorry, Gonby.’

‘Not to worry. We’ll see what Chapman has to say later. In the meantime, some chap in the gents told me I’d be advised to stop in at the Griffin, by the station. Reckons there’s another consortium buying charabanc parts that meets there of an afternoon.’

The consortium in question, which was calling itself ‘Leeds United’, had already acquired two wheels and a door handle, but were less secretive than the Cripps. They knew, for example, that Dic-Dat had tracked three bench seats down very early on and the Dada were using them as beds in a disused stable off Kirkgate. They also knew the whereabouts of the front axle, but were confident they could build an entirely new one for half the price.

‘But what’s your interest in all this?’ I asked Eli Harding, who had provided the above information.

‘These are the death throes of Leeds City. We’re looking more long-term. If we can get the charabanc built for Saturday, great: we’ll hire it out to the football team, make a killing, and there’s money in the bank for when we form our own club. If we don’t build it, we’ll have stopped Leeds City from doing so, possibly hastening their demise. If they cannot fulfil their fixture on Saturday that will only upset the Football League more.’

‘Would you consider selling out to Leeds City?’ asked Jack, struggling to remain hopeful.

‘If the price was right it might be convenient,’ said Harding, ‘It would be a lifeline for them short-term, of course, but in terms of the long-game it could be worth it for us.’

‘What about the Dada?’

Harding shook his head. ‘I’m an artist myself. Amateur, that is. Watercolours, landscapes, the odd family portait…’ he took a cigarette from Jack and lit it with his own match, ‘And I will have nothing at all to do with such non-representational tendencies and pretentious politicizations,’ his voice was raised now, ‘How dare they come up to Yorkshire and try to tell us how to paint?’

‘Calm down, Eli,’ called the landlord from behind the bar.

□ □ □ □ □

Things seemed to be moving very quickly, but nothing had prepared us for the cries of pain emanating from the changing rooms when we got back to the West Stand. We decided things had gone far enough, and we would begin walking back to Wolverhampton immediately, but before we had reached the door Herbert Chapman appeared in front of us.

‘We’re not goons, Mr Chapman,’ said Jack. Chapman laughed. ‘Of course not, Mr Dudley,’ he said quietly.

‘I’ve just been talking to Joe Connor,’ he said genially, ‘It turns out he’s got hold of a number of useful parts, which he has kindly let us have. He is also willing to negotiate with the Dada.’

‘And you trust him?’ I asked. Some weeping could still be heard up the corridor.

‘Yes, I think so. In any case I want to keep some distance from this affair. It has already got a little too ugly for my taste.’ He wiped his hands on a handkerchief, which I noticed was stained red in places.

‘Are you aware of this Leeds United consortium that has been formed?’

Chapman raised his eyebrows. ‘I think Connor might have mentioned it. He’s going to handle all that, too. Just be advised we may still need your help. This sort of negotiation often entails a… physical contribution, somewhere down the line.’

‘We’re not goons, Mr Chapman,’ said Jack Dudley.

Chapman laughed. ‘Of course not, Mr Dudley,’ he said quietly.

□ □ □ □ □

The ‘physical contribution’ turned out to be the building of a gravity-powered go-cart, using the parts of the charabanc that each team had managed to assemble, along with any bits and bobs it could source elsewhere, to be driven in a winner-takes-all race down North Grange Road, Headingley. With almost no original components to our name, we were able to construct ‘The Peacock’ using advantageous components such as perambulator wheels, but with a high terminal velocity due to the presence of the engine block, which Herbert Chapman had managed to procure. This, combined with skilled and fearless piloting by Jack Dudley, brought victory on a glorious Friday afternoon, despite a late surge from the heavier ‘Revolution and Nothing’, whose driver suffered two broken arms and shocking reviews in the West Riding Fine Arts Review.

That night, with help from members of the Leeds United consortium and the skilled mechanics of Bostock and Baker, we managed to rebuild the entire charabanc in time to set off for Molineux with the City team and the Dunstall Dada after breakfast the next morning. Despite the rather arduous journey, the visitors were better prepared than the Wolves, and ran out comfortable victors thanks to a hat-trick from Billy McLeod and a goal from Lamph. It would be Leeds City’s final match, though we didn’t know that as we waved the charabanc goodbye.

Despite the scoreline, and calls for Jack Addenbrooke’s head from the usual volatile sections of the Cowshed, it felt good to be home, and I swore I’d never leave Wolverhampton again, at least until we travelled to Bury the following week.